2017
The Pendulum Volume XXVII
St. Luke’s School 377 North Wilton Road 203.966.5612
New Canaan, CT 06840
slspendulum@gmail.com
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Noise: Emma Emma Duryea Duryea
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loud or quiet It can change very quickly
BAM,
Swoosh, CLUNK,
Ding,
Noise. 3
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Editor’s Statement We need to process an immense amount of data every day. Indeed, our lives are made up of stimuli. The conversations we have, the information we absorb, and even the music we listen to have a profound impact on the experiences we have and the lives that we lead. The Pendulum’s theme this year, “noise,” refl cts this sentiment. Th s past year has been quite the whirlwind, not only here at St. Luke’s, but also around the world. From the 2016 election to Pokemon Go, it has been all too easy to get distracted by all the media noise. It is also possible, however, to draw inspiration from the mess. Poetry, literature, and artwork are all noise -- organized, good noise -- harnessed and preserved on the page. Words and brushstrokes can make a reader feel much in the same way that a song or a film can, and this year’s magazine aims to prove that. We must look to the human mind as the source of noise. A word written and a word spoken come from the same place, after all. Noise can be hectic, it can be dramatic, and it can be overwhelming. But it can also be illuminating. It can be an experience. It can be anything. And 2017’s Pendulum is all of that.
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Literature Poetry
Noise Tramping The Misty Dew If Night Were Day 8th Grade Feels In Memorium Gray Area tick.Tick.TICK.BOOM! Th s is what Makes us Girls I Believe the World is Magic The Crossing Taking the L Is My Enemy the Dark? The ar Window My Being The inal Charge Safe Haven A Witch is Cackling in the Nearby Trees
Emma Duryea Caitlyn Hughes Ella Pepper Thomas Besgen Lea Panagiotidis Harrison Mount Mary Zech Gabrielle Doré Natalie Bachman Kristen Beaumonte Allie Vogel Tucker Menzies Elise Scott Clara Pakman Aida Nahas Harry Wyckoff Colin Meany Ajit Akole
“Untitled,” Photograph by Patrick Evans
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2-3 12 13 15 18 21 22 24 27 28 29 40-41 42 43 51 56 61 62
“Balcony with Flowers,” Painting by Maria Minuesa
He Pecks Away Christabel Ode to Soap (Part I) Th rns The ong of Earth Tying the Knot Paradise is not Sweeping, But Loft d on a Fantasy Where Monsters Lurk Ode to Soap (Part II) Day Comes Growing Up Urban Nightmare Number Nine His Greatest Achievement Intruder A Sea of Mangroves I am Sorry To Inform You West Point Dream Ode to Soap (Part III) Afl at
Mary Zech Kristen Beaumonte Leo Van Munching Leo Van Munching Harrison Mount Colin Meany Kate Stamoulis Lars Ernberg Dennis Polyakov Brody Menzies Bilal Memon Harry Wyckoff David Ball Paige Lord Gavin Haas Nicholas Lange David W. Kim II Lucia Wiggers, Sarah Powless and Ellie Haljun Hunter Libman
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122-123 124
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Prose Where’s the Genius? What to Wear (Part I) What Time Leaves Behind Girl in the Water A Paisley Problem An Immense Frustration with the Unaware Gimme Shelter What to Wear (Part II) The mperfect Union Peaches When Guns Become a Game Taste Ode to Soap (Part IV) Hell Heaven and Hell
Ali Truwitt Kristen Beaumonte, Anonymous and Jack Hobbs Kristen Beaumonte Ellen Jones Ajit Akole Emma Castiglione Caitlyn Hughes Clara Pakman, Max Lyakovetsky and Kate Stamoulis Hannah Haden The Pendulum Staff and Jack Hobbs Georgia Rosenberg Jack Hobbs The Pendulum Staff Dayne Brissette Alex Nerod
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38-39 46-47 52 58-59 74-75 76
81 84 86-87 88-89 100-103 112 118 126-127
Sonnets The ar Window Our Toxic Love I Fear the Sea
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Clara Pakman Olivia Schwartz Cassie Long
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Artwork The endulum 2017 Cover Painting by Mary Zech
Drawings Trillion Girls Zentangled Origin of the Universe Still Life with Bird Sculpture
Poe Abstract My Paisley Untitled deadroses Morning Routine Lovecraft Pastel Jewelry Box Miami Beach Freestyle 04 Untitled Scrunched Eyes
Leo Van Munching Lucia Wiggers Kaitlin Necakov Chloe Kekdjian Jason Schwartz Meg Adams Caitlin Conetta Leo Van Munching Jason Schwartz Jason Schwartz Chloe Kekedjian Jason Schwartz Leo Van Munching Rebecca Taylor Caitlyn Conetta
Ink on Paper Ink on Paper Colored Pencil on Paper
Graphite on Paper Ink on Paper Ink on Paper Ink on Paper Ink on Paper Graphite on Paper Ink on Paper Pastel on Paper Colored Pencil on Paper
Ink on Paper Graphite on Paper Charcoal on Paper
26 33 44 47 48-49 58 59 70 75 82-83 85 92 98-99 102 109
Mixed Media Untitled Rebecca Untitled Butterfly ar Hole Bowl
Chloe Kekedjian Mary Zech Olivia Schwartz Anna Camp Kendall Boege
Acrylic on Collage Mosaic Collage Ceramic Ceramic
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“Vase with Flowers,” Painting by Carolina Warneryd
Photographs Untitled Patrick Evans Telluride Bridget Dalton Barn Clare Armstrong Unitled Michael Pizzani Osage Man Clare Armstrong Dull Wes Meyers Untitled Jesse Segalla Lincoln Isabelle Stone Camión de Comida Cate Van Elslander La Peinture Cate Van Elslander Her Home Isabelle Stone Humidity on the Rise Lucia Wiggers Lucy Isabelle Stone Dude, Listen to Me Bridget Dalton Untitled Abigail O’Meara Untitled Clare Armstrong Stormy Weather Emma Duryea Untitled Andrew Correia Gracie Wes Meyers Night Swim Lucia Wiggers Untitled Brandon Kekedjian Forest in the Mountains Bridget Dalton Sailing Anna Raleigh Uhuru Peak, Mount Rutger Zenner Kilimanjaro
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Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photogaph Gelatin Silver Print Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Gelatin Silver Print Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Ink Transfer Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph
6 12 13 14 20 22 29 30-31 35 35 39 40-41 52 54-55 56 57 60-61 62 64 68-69 73 76-77 80
Digital Photograph
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Untitled Untitled Catholic School The ay Out Refl ctions M.I.T. Untitled Spring Untitled Intersection Osage Women Quitsa St. Martin Sky
Clare Armstrong Emma Scanlan Bridget Dalton Brendan Casey Jack Durvasula Jack Durvasula Lucas Manocherian Abigail O’Meara Michael Pizzani Matthew Murphy Clare Armstrong Isabelle Stone Clare Armstrong
Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Gelatin Silver Print Ink Transfer Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph
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Digital Imaging Th s Time Tomorrow Kendall Untitled
Sam Boston Meg Adams Matthew Murphy
Digital Image Digital Image Digital Image
16-17 19 24-25
Paintings Balcony with Flowers Vase with Flowers Salt Storm Untitled Blue Bayou Saranac literality. Untitled Blue Flowers Matt Healy Untitled Blue Mind
Maria Minuesa Carolina Warneryd Alexandra Schwartz Jackie Thompson Alexandra Schwartz Mary Zech Alexandra Schwartz Caitlyn Conetta Caitlyn Conetta Emma Castiglione Mary Zech Cameron Stonehouse Jake Dobbin
Oil on Board Watercolor on Paper Watercolor on Paper Acrylic on Canvas Acrylic on Board Oil on Paper Watercolor on Paper Oil on Board Oil on Board Oil on Canvas Oil on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas Oil on Canvas
7 10 28 38 42 43 50 63 66-67 79 93 96-97 123
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Tramping In the moment, That is how we live. Nothing is planned, nor thought through. Mindless thinking like this is a gift To see the beauty in an undefi ed future. The adventurous, open mind is most often overlooked. We drive together in our Campervan for days, Sometimes nights, And it often gets crowded. But once we reach a destination, Every doubt that roamed before has immediately been forgotten. I wouldn’t say we’re runners, We’re just trampers on wheels. Everything I own lies in the trunk And everything I aspire to learn from life lies on the endless road ahead. Maybe living is running And maybe, Just maybe, Breathing is only breathing when sitting in a fi ld covered in pure air. You may see just a distance ahead But to me, The distance is a path of never ending opportunity.
“Telluride,” Photograph by Bridget Dalton
- Caitlyn Hughes
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“Barn,� Photograph by Clare Armstrong
The Misty Dew The misty dew Creating a standstill Everything is Silent Not even the birds have awoken Clouds have gone into hiding The crisp dark wood contrasts a pale blue A cool morning, summer breeze Sends chills up my spine Lights Twinkle from the night before When workers laughed Dined and crashed On the hay bails that surround the barn Yet the new day must begin The birds now awaken Chirping gossip from one to the next Horses nay at dawn And the resurrection of the day Our lovely little oasis On the farm - Ella Pepper
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“Untitled,” Photograph by Michael Pizzani
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If Night Were Day If night were day and sun were moon, Night would be play, And sleep would be day. But then everything would be like night and day, Only if night were day and sun were moon. - Thomas Besgen
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“Th s Time Tomorrow,” Digital Image by Sam Boston
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8th Grade Feels Oh hush my dear teachers from Walk Lane School, Whenever you yell at us, We feel like fools. I get we’re not middle schoolers anymore, but gosh jeez Don’t be so hard on me please, please, please. I’ll try my best to act my age, But when i’m treated like a child, I get enraged. I admit the transition takes some time, But are my actions really that big of a crime? Some may say that our grade is great, And others say we have bad traits. We started off he year with a pow, Then our teachers had a cow! We’re out of dress code, or the hall’s a mess, All they do is stress, stress, stress. The 9th grade is trying to fulfill their needs, We even attend a few lunch and leads. Sorry we’re not perfect little jewels, But I guess we’re just stuck in Middle School! - Lea Panagiotidis
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“Kendall,” Digital Image by Meg Adams
“Osage Man,” Photograph by Clare Armstrong
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- Harrison Mount 21
“Dull,� Photograph by Wes Meyers
Gray Area A dullness (of which I knew not then and know not now) inflated my lungs and my heart and my dull ears to my dull toes till I felt I could fit the whole world right between my shoulder blades. The earth under my feet felt rusted and worn, as if the trees (just beyond my reach behind a small fence) had soaked up all life just to spite me. And it worked, because just as I felt my mind drift rom loneliness, a snapping bough reminded me that I am not one of them, I am one of me. - Mary Zech
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tick.Tick.TICK.BOOM! I’m here. Don’t you feel it? I’m here. I am what you feel when the blood rushing through your veins Is electrifi d by the human spirit I am the emotions you can grasp by just the blink of the eye. I am life. I burst throughout your cells like exploding pistons in an engine I drive you to keep going, to never wander from your true purpose I am what allows you to feel the truest concentrate of happiness Yet, the only caveat, the only roadblock being--you I am life. Let yourself dissolve into your sorrows and understand the weights That disengage your spirit. Let it all go. I am life. I am what controls your strifes and triumphs. I am inside of you--waiting to be unlocked. You are key, and you are the lock. Once you understand both, You are reborn... - Gabrielle Doré
“Untitled,” Digital Image by Matthew Murphy
“Trillion Girls,” Drawing by Leo Van Munching
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This Is What Makes Us Girls I’ve spent my life - for better or for worse Learning from my older sister. She taught me how to put my hair into a ponytail, How to dress myself for school. But somewhere along the line She taught me, or rather, I learned from her How to hate myself. It is the demon on every girl’s shoulder, The shadow of self-doubt that looms over us all. And so this hatred was passed down like a precious family heirloom, A shining, silver locket that said, ‘To be female is to hate.’ And so my likeness has become that of one rippling in the water It is me, but not quite, Fragmented and unclear, The face of a scared girl being pushed underneath the surface So that she can never again reappear. If I reject everything I so despise, I can accept myself, right? But the genius of insecurity is that the more you try to hide it, The more it grows.
But confronting your insecurities To be open and vulnerable Is a fate worse than death. So I keep my hair long, Wake up earlier to put on makeup, Try to fit my face into a more feminine mold So at least that way, I can hide. But somewhere along the way I’ve forgotten how much of it was for show. The line between fabrication and reality is too blurred for me to see And the girl I pretend to be in order to mask my hatred Is the one whose eyes meet my own as I mutter, “My skin looks disgusting today. My hair looks revolting today.” So when I stare at my face, Painted smooth and pale, I cannot tell how much of it is my own image. I can no longer tell what part of me is actually who I am And what part is who I forced myself to be. But who am I to challenge this high-heeled procession? And thus, conformity does make cowards of us all. So, I strap on my Date Night Push-Up Bra, Pull my skirt up just a little bit higher, And hope that today, I will be enough. - Natalie Bachman
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“Salt Storm,” Painting by Alexandra Schwartz
I believe the World is Magic You tell me that the rain is the meeting of warm and cool, But I know that it, instead, is the tears of an angel. You tell me that the leaves fall off rees and die, But I know that they’re meant to give color to the sky. You tell me that a rainbow is just water refracting light, But I know that it’s hope burning through the darkest night. You tell me that it’s no use to pick a dandelion weed, But I know that it’s a precious wish of an unspoken need. You tell me that a butterfly is just a caterpillar with wings, But I know that it’s a miracle among seemingly hopeless things. You tell me that there’s an explanation for everything I see But to me it’s magic- all of it- all of the world’s beauty. That’s what I believe. - Kristen Beaumonte
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The Crossing The pastel sunset froze on a summer night I run over to you Mountains pierce the sky….buried deep in the iced ground I dance over to you Motor cycles scream, engines roar And I Jump over to you Moonlight shining down smiling at me As I am smiling over at you -Allie Vogel
“Untitled,” Photograph by Jesse Segalla
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“Lincoln,” Photograph by Isabelle Stone
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Where’s the Genius? Genius: “a person who is exceptionally intelligent or creative, either generally or in some particular respect.” It’s a pretty daunting and impressive defin tion. Not a word people typically have the nerve to label themselves as. But not at Apple. No – these folks have entered into the world of arrogance with their so-called “Genius Bar.“ Oh yeah, don’t worry – you don’t sound pretentious naming it that. Why focus on the customer and go with the “Quick Fix Bar” or the “Help Bar” or the “Customer Service Bar”, when you can instead proudly and publicly proclaim your own alleged brilliance? For starters, if these geniuses are so exceptionally intelligent, let’s get them out of the Stamford mall, away from Wetzel’s Pretzels, and instead, working on some anti-hacking programming. They should stop fixi g simple broken screens and get cracking on stopping the Russians and Chinese from hacking our Secretary of State and Fortune 100 companies’ emails. That, I might call genius. But, that’s not what they are doing at all. To make matters worse, the place is crawling with these geniuses, who are really just utterly unhelpful prototypes of people who make you feel insecure or just annoyed. There’s the Whiz Kid, who thinks your problem is beneath him, the Elder Statesman, who’s decided he’s not going to let time or technology pass him by, and the Trend Follower, who knows all the tech language, but
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barely speaks English because he’s so coolly peppering his speech with his tech savvy language that you don’t know what he’s saying about your computer’s problem. But then again, neither does he, as he simply refers you to yet another “Genius,” clad in thick black “genius” glasses at the Genius Bar. Last but not least, The Hipster, who’s defin tely no genius, but does know marketing, as he condescendingly scoffs at my mom for referring to the rose gold laptop as the “pretty pink one.” Honestly, the only genius behind this whole concept is that their answer is almost always an upgrade. God forbid they fix our $400 phone for free. Nah, what they do is suggest a more expensive phone with a new, complicated service plan or an upgrade to a phone with more gigs of storage, a better camera, a home button that works better, or anything really other than a genius solving your problem free of charge. These geniuses convince buyers that their “old” model, which is deemed old the minute a newer version comes out, can not be saved and that they should spend more money to purchase the new phone. Now, I see it. Now, I get the genius. No actual “exceptional intelligence” required regarding the technological aspects of devices, just an ability to brainwash buyers into purchasing newer devices. Smart. Heck, maybe even – genius. - Ali Truwit
“Zentangled,” Drawing by Lucia Wiggers
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“Camión de Comida,” Photograph by Cate Van Elslander
“La Peinture,” Photograph by Cate Van Elslander
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“Untitled,” Mixed Media by Chloe Kekedjian
“Untitled,� Painting by Jackie Thompson
What To Wear (Part I)
She wore a blue gown and looked like the sky. She wore a red cape and looked like the sun. She wore green jewels and looked like the earth. She wore silver shoes and looked like the stars. She was the whole world and he knew it. - Kristen Beaumonte
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She wore a gold ring. I could see her laughing with her friends at the far end of the bar. Did she see me, or did I delude myself? I think she did- well, yes, she’s looking again. But which fi ger is it on? - Anonymous
She wore a beige tracksuit. Her hair was the color of straw. She was Olga, and everyone else was an ant. Men withered under her gaze, and it was rumored that she had singlehandedly dissolved the Soviet Union. Gorbachev might beg to differ. - Jack Hobbs
“Her Home,” Photograph by Isabelle Stone
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Taking the L ceruLean screams bLuer and bLuer by night catch that time again bow of the boat, hands on her hips caught off g ard again by that face, by her Lips winds and waters, sinking ship
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friends at his side, theirs was more onLy Love is aLL maroon, you know that song? from the rooftop they consoLe outward Laughs and hoLding cLose fi ding time to bring her home waiting now, it’s aLmost gone - Tucker Menzies
“Humidity on the Rise,” Photograph by Lucia Wiggers
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Is my enemy the dark? Is my enemy the dark, That rushes through my room, That goes into deep caves, And ignites certain doom, The dark that holds my fears, Both realistic and fake, From the memories of my childhood, And the new ones that I’ll make, It hides all of the embarrassment, From time and time ago, Covering the tears behind my eyes, That work their hardest not to show, It hides the sadness of a loss, The depth of your soft um, It hides the painful wonder, Of what is soon to come,
The light turns on and suddenly, Your imperfections are revealed, Everyone can see the scar, That in the dark was sealed, Don’t you know that light will shine More often than the night, Unless of course you change your mind, And the daylight becomes night, So tell me dear from what you’ve heard, Will you stay out of the night? Or after this conversation, Is my enemy the light? - Elise Scott
But why the painful wonder, When there is just the pain, The hurt that never shows, Or the haunting of the blame, Darkness is the keeper, Of the secrets in your mind, The secrets you keep from others, And the secrets you may fi d, The dark can hide things well, Thi gs nobody can know, The things that must be locked away, And never tell a soul, So why the fear of darkness? Is it not your friend? Is it not the thing that stays Right by you, Till the end,
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“Blue Bayou,” Painting by Alexandra Schwartz
The Car Window The violet shade of night assumes the sky My eager eyes the colors do astound Neon signs beckon as the car rolls by Casting their hues of pink upon the ground. A wonderland of blue and black and mist Each passing second too fl eting to grasp The lights upon the road, stewed and rain-kissed My mind engulfed in spectrum of the past. I urge to meet what keeps me mesmerized: The streets where dancing raindrops do assist The luminance of hues not yet surmised And danger and adventure coexist. Alas, it’s cold and dark. It’s quite arcane How life looks better through the window pane. - Clara Pakman
“Saranac” Painting by Mary Zech
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“Origin of the Universe,” Drawing by Kaitlin Necakov
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What Time Leaves Behind The other day, I was looking in my bedroom for my left hoe, and these are the things I found:: From the many compartments of my closet emerged a dry purple marker with the faint smell of grape, a 2002 penny, and the yellow head of a Lego man whose body had the misfortune of meeting the vacuum cleaner. There was a broken pencil and a fuzzy mint sitting beside a faded pink bow and a vintage water bottle cap from a time before Poland Spring’s environmental campaign. Then came a pristine five dollar bill paper-clipped to a birthday card and a crumpled To Do List with a single, unchecked chore: feed the fish. Out came Barbie’s party dress, a cassette, half-rewound, and a sparkly cherry lip balm with a blueberry lid. Next surfaced a star eraser with four points and one nub, a “Nice Work!” sticker, a six times twelve flashcard, and a ruler that had met an untimely end. Finally, from the depths emerged a butterfly barrette, a doll pacifie , and a fairy picture book with bent pages, missing flaps, and a worn binding.
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“Still Life with Bird Sculpture,” Drawing by Chloe Kekedjian
From under my bed came two dollars and eighteen cents, five bobby pins, a deflated beach ball sat on one too many times, and a photograph of my second grade self missing two front teeth. Along with an army of dust bunnies, there were beads from an unravelled bracelet with half of a heart among them. Also discovered was a plastic watch correct only twice a day, a sparkly super ball, and a broken dreamcatcher that could no longer keep the nightmares out. Immediately into the trash went a fly carcass, a cough drop, and a dozen snapped rubber bands, but the ripped drawing of a stick figu e family was retrieved on second thought. Then emerged a gold wand snapped in half, a sock three sizes too small, and a stuffed penguin that had at some point found a home between the wall and the mattress. Accompanying these was the tooth fairy’s gift of a silver dollar, a homemade fortune teller, and a wad of gum that probably would’ve broken about five rules if my mother ever found it there. At last, illuminated by a sliver of light, I discovered a coded note from my brother who no longer lived next door.
I never found my left hoe, so I chose a different pair. - Kristen Beaumonte 47
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“Poe Abstract,” Drawing by Jason Schwartz
“literality.” Watercolor by Alexandra Schwartz
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My Being I fell in love with someone special Who I wanted to be with forever I knew that this being Would stay with me In a castle together We would die with an ember My life was complete With my one and only being My heart would never stop beating My being My love My everything Kept me beaming My being was taken From my life and soul I would never be the same I had no control The death of my being Too hard to take in I was wishing this was all just a game I would never be the same My being My love My everything Kept me beaming Taken Gone Dead
-Aida Nahas
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Girl In The Water
“Lucy,” Photograph by Isabelle Stone
The ocean is as calm as can be. The girl standing in the water uses her arms to cause ripples as she drags her hand across the cool surface, disrupting its natural fl w. With a calm serenity, she breaths in and breaths out, just as the tides fl w. The never ending blue of the ocean mirrors back into her eyes. Wandering deep into the void, the water’s edge blurs into the sky, as if they were one. With what feels like a never ending blue, the faint yellow of the setting sun is like a heart of gold. - Ellen Jones
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“Dude, Listen to Me,” Photograph by Bridget Dalton
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The Final Charge They ride through the night, through the empty desolation Fueled only by their bloodlust and their sleep deprivation Staring down the barrels of an angry foreign nation Who load and aim their guns, poised for retaliation Moving quickly, and with much determination. Remembering their past, they had a certain obligation to die in its name without trepidation. Forward they ride, maintaining formation Against a force which they see as an abomination They must charge against the deadly jaws of innovation. They know what they face, and its implications They know they must die. No sweat on their foreheads, no condensation No fear in their hearts, only dedication No more diplomacy, no more negotiation They urge their steeds onwards with pure desperation. With the hopes that their actions will bring them salvation, They charge headfi st, towards certain annihilation. - Harry Wyckoff
“Untitled,” Photograph by Abigail O’Meara
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“Untitled,” Photograph by Clare Armstrong
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A Paisley Problem The tie is a quintessential part of any man’s wardrobe. It is meant to show a level of professionalism, giving the wearer a look meant to impress. However, whenever a man chooses to dress himself with a paisley tie, he may as well give up on any aspirations he had and go join a circus. In no way am I saying that the paisley tie is simply a bad fashion choice. Rather, the combination of fl ral design and bright color is a force of evil, with the capacity to tarnish a person’s reputation. Why one would choose to subject themselves to such humiliation is a mystery to me and any reasonable human being. We are all familiar with the normal patterns of stripes, dots, etc. But paisley is in a category of its own. It is a bizarre combination of fl ral patterns outlining some design in the shape of a deformed vegetable. Th s may look nice on a carpet or scarf, but a tie is simply not the place for such absurdity. Yes, paisley may have been big in the 60s, with hippies sporting the look at their concerts and protests. And yes, I understand that paisley was replicated on perhaps every type of clothing imaginable. But get with the times people! Its 2016, the counterculture is over, and paisley is way out of style. “My Paisley,” Drawing by Meg Adams
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my mind immediately races to the image of a clown in large red shoes who is holding balloons and sporting an extravagant tie. It is still truly a mystery to me as to what idiot thought it would be a good idea to overlay such outlandish designs on a piece of clothing meant to signify professionalism. Honestly, if wearing paisley ties is going to become a new fashion trend, then we may as well expect the ties of the future to be designed by children. Hell, I’ve seen better, more professional designs in coloring books! So men, next time you buy a paisley tie, do us all a favor and buy the whole hippie costume. After all, at least it would disguise that utterly horrid fashion choice. - Ajit Akole
“Untitled,” Drawing by Caitlyn Conetta
However, once you grow up, you need make the right decisions. For example, going to prom sporting a paisley tie is as bad as not picking up your date. In fact, I’d be surprised if any girl would still be willing to dance with you, considering how severe an offense the paisley tie is. Now, I don’t usually exaggerate or make up stories, but trust me when I say that this single design will ruin your love life and hinder any chances you have with a girl. Guaranteed. The paisley tie emits an aura of imaturity, and women want men, not little boys. Once men start working and need to wear a tie on a daily basis, they begin to think that nobody really notices the tie. Rest assured, people notice, and people judge. When I do business with someone, I want to know that they are serious about their work. However, as soon as I see the combination of bizarre patterns overlaid on a dress shirt,
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Safe Haven The peace of seclusion Lies inside the walls Many winters have been spent here Sitting near the fi e with its warm glow In the distance you can hear the whistle of the snowflakes Blowing carelessly through the prairies The bright lights from inside Contrast starkly with the grey abyss That rests a step outside the door To some, the cabin may be just that But for the right person Perhaps an outlet Or escape And if you really try It almost seems as if you can feel The world rotate around you - Colin Meany
“Stormy Weather,� Photograph by Emma Duryea
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“Untitled,” Ink Transfer Photograph by Andrew Correia
A Witch is Cackling In The Nearby Trees A witch is cackling in the nearby trees, She must be plotting some killer scheme. I glance out of my window just to see Nothing but white—she’s hiding, it seems. But then I hear a piercing shriek. A beast of magic must have sprung From a brew to turn children into freaks. As they say, they always leave so young. A wicked symphony of these sounds I cannot bear, it must end now. A hero’s coat, I am ready to reign supreme. I burst through the door, the sky silent as a dream. -Ajit Akole
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Our Toxic Love And we were fi e and all we had were flames. I breathed in smoke for one day too long. Splinter did my frail bones, pop went my veins, my hands still shake to the beat of our song. You like it when we fi ht, felt right this time. I’m used to words that clog up my fresh air. You quit the hike while I fin sh the climb. And when I try you do not seem to care. I know my words scar skin and rip your rags, So I feel like I’m the one that loses. And if you crash I will be your airbags, taking impact so you won’t get bruises. So just because tonight you’re feeling blue, Make sure you know I can’t live without you.
“Untitled,” Painting by Caitlyn Conetta
- Olivia Schwartz
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“Gracie,” Photograph by Wes Meyers
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- Mary Zech
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Christabel ‘Christabel, sweet Christabel, From the heav’ns above doth fell. An orphan’d child of a living father Cast aside like a servant for thy better. Thy soul belongs to me now, child, And now it is to be defiled With mine own sins, with mine own fault, A force that cannot alone be fought. And thou art alone: Lamb with no shepherd, dove with no voice, Lily trodden upon with no choice. Thy virtue is mine, thou art nothing at all, And the serpent inside shall hold thee in thrall.’ Then the small voice spoke softly And rage flashed in her eyes, Sweet Christabel fought the evil and lies. But sweet no more, the clash was grand, And the battle was staged in head, not hand. ‘Serpent, thou art cunning, but thine eyes deceive, My virtue is lost, but it shall ne’er honor thee! Thou mayst take from me, but I am not poor, I will always possess the thing thou yearn for. Take my father! Take my voice! Take my part! Ravage my mind! Ravage my soul! Ravage my heart! I was pure, the untouchèd fl w’r, But serpent thou were pluckèd within the hour. Before the path thou went astray, And on that path I didst stay. Dost thou want me? Have me! I will come, But I cannot lose the right that I have done. Th u hast none, so now I say, My virtue will not thou obey!’
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“Blue,” Painting by Caitlyn Conetta
And the serpent replied with words sharp and fie ce, And Christabel’s soul the devil’s words did pierce. ‘I doth not want thine virtue foolish girl, I want thy soul corrupted like a black-turnèd pearl. Thou shalt be lost ne’er to be found, And thou wilt forget of what thou art proud. Nothing is left, f the pearl purest white, But the shell it hath liv’d in, that too I’ll excite. Thou art mine dear lass, complete and whole, For now I’ve encompassed thy heart, mind and soul.’ Poor Christabel, the brave-hearted dove, Fate did not favor her life or her love. She had stood once more on her own two feet And fought unaided to the devil unseat. But the battle had ceased, the victor was clear, And the serpent had triumphed o’er the dear. Christabel was dead, the girl ceased to be, And all that was left w s her shell, her body. The body possessed walked out into the cold, For chills do not bother one without soul. She glided through the gates in the dead of the night, Snow-like skin, rippling robes so eerily white. She took to the forest where she’d once prayed for her knight, On that fateful eve when she hath begun her plight. Body without soul, crept stealthily by, Oh poor Christabel! Why the lamb, Why! Silence was heavy as she reachèd the tree, The same lofty ak that hath begun the scene. But Christabel didst not bow down to pray, She went ‘round the trunk and on the ground she lay. Lying in wait for the next Christabel, Whose innocent tragedy she was doomed to tell. - Kristen Beaumonte
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Ode To Soap (Part I)
If cleanliness is next to godliness, What is a bar of soap? A cross, perhaps. Clearly, washing yourself is an equal burden; Or not. Many depend on being clean, showering daily. Many depend on faith, praying daily. Is soap essential as your faith, day by day? Perhaps. Some clean their soul through their God. I clean myself with my soap. Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all. - Leo van Munching
“Night Swim,� Photograph by Lucia Wiggers
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“deadroses,” Drawing by Leo Van Munching
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Thorns Does a thorn choose to prick on its own volition, or is it simply its nature to do so? Does a thorn prick because it is part of a greater blossoming whole,(which must be protected until it can bear fruit), or does it function merely in the name of outward violence? Does a thorn prick without the willingness of the one being pricked? Perhaps possessing a rose is to commit self-violence by thorn? But a thorn is designed for violence in protection of the blossom. Without outside interference, it is no more violent then the stem it resides upon. Without the blossom, what good are the thorns? They would make a sublime bane. Although, I do not think I would quite enjoy being a bane, if I had the choice. Is choice distinct from nature? It is in your nature to choose, and your nature informs your choices. The thorns shall test our convictions, then. Th s is a grim path of learning, indeed. - Leo Van Munching
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“Untitled,� Photograph by Brandon Kekedjian
The Song of Earth The Earth stands humbly alone, patient in solitude, humming the tune of humanity. The Earth sings, in harmony with other planets. The beat of Mars, The melody of Neptune, The chant of Venus... The Sun at the center, conducting the symphony of the solar system. Millions of years pass as they practice, tightening strings and writing notes. Anticipating a grand performance, with no audience and no applause. - Harrison Mount
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An Immense Frustration with the Unaware There is a special place in hell designated for those who have no awareness of their own presence in social situations, and with that, the inconvenience that their presence presents. These people have no respect for the world around them, and even less so for the necessities of society and the ever-ticking clock whose precious seconds they waste. One is most likely to come across these frighteningly common specimens at the most necessary place known to man: the grocery store. First off, there is the picky chooser. “No, I want that falafel. The one in the corner… NO the other corner! And can you put some extra sauce on that? My husband likes the sauce. How much does that weigh? Oh, that won’t be enough; could you cut one in half and add it?” Th s is the sort of person who deserves no joy or fulfillment in life. No one cares about your sauce loving husband or which falafel you get. Not one person. These people not only demonstrate copious amounts of self importance, but also a desire to see the world burn. Then there is the lane hog. Th s grocery store plague often debates with him or herself, out loud, which type of popcorn or other snack item they should choose. “Should I get the sea salt or the kettle corn.. Perhaps the jalapeno? Oh, that might be a bit spicy. I guess I’ll just get the sea salt.” Th s poor creature, riddled with indecisiveness and poor
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time management skills, is most commonly old and wearing keds with ankle socks. While they have this evidently life or death dilemma, they are entirely unaware that they are in the middle of the godforsaken lane, and a line of carts is contemplating moving entire aisle shelves to try and scoot past this delusional human being. I have places to go, lady. The extreme couponer is another one of the worst kinds of people you can run into while shopping for your cinnamon raisin bagels and avocado sushi rolls. Can’t a girl get some almond milk around here? It’s absurd, really. Th s compulsive user of typical grocery-store-item vouchers, as you might say, is obsessive to say the least. Who needs six jugs of detergent? Not you! The lines “Oh, I have a coupon for that” and “It can’t be expired, I got it last week!” often escape this menace’s lips. And you know what? Maybe it wouldn’t even be that bad. Maybe I could deal. But then this silly excuse for a member of our community just has to go on grinding my gears, and decided to bring absolutely no cash to the store. They end up with a “total of “$5.63 sir” and desperately scramble through their pocket change to come up with the money; because, as we all know “There can be no purchases with a credit card under $15.” We have currency for a reason: USE IT! Finally, there is the mother of seven, who has both her husband and herself shoving their carts down the aisle whilst their
“Morning Routine,� Drawing by Jason Schwartz
hooligans scream and cry, entirely unaware of their surroundings. You fi d yourself unable to escape the hysterics which you have so unfortunately come across, and fall victim to an impending sense of defeat. They yell and they jump and they play and they fall, and for some reason you just cannot get away! They ask for chocolate and cry when they are given a weary no from their zonked parents, and they just have to look at every sort of Dorito chip flavor. I promise you, you will never get through them all small child. Give in. Though you may be able to escape this crowd during your actual shopping experience, there is no avoiding their deeply inconvenient presence once it comes time to check out. With their $700 worth of mass-purchase food items, you can be sure that there is not one chance that you will be making it back home in time for
the new episode of Chopped. And tonight was the leftover special. There comes a time in every woman’s life when she must, indeed, buy groceries. As for now, I fi d myself basking in the glory in which I reside; a glory absent of all grocery stores. However, I am not naive in this matter. I know that all good things must come to an end, and I fear the time when it is up to me to buy the almond milk. Nevertheless, the almond milk must be bought; and the job will soon be for me to take upon myself. Until then, however, I recognize from a safe distance the matters of agony, frustration, and utter devastation that go down in the grocery store. - Emma Castiglione
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Gimme Shelter
Children speed through summer as if in daze on go-karts
racing through a fieldless maze. Their parents, however, do not worry. They stand and watch from the kitchen reminiscing about their historic bear-hunting days, back when technology wasn’t as efficient and liberating. Is it wrong to live such a careless life full of joy and abundance when there are children starving millions of miles away? Holding onto their skin and bones, those children seek nourishment while our children are indulging in tacos and adolescent happiness. Yet, amongst all the luxury and privilege, those with the most still want more. More adventure, more lavishness, and more vacations in Honolulu.
- Caitlyn Hughes
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“Forest in the Mountains,” Photograph Bridget Dalton
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Tying The Knot The soft, hite petals swaying in the wind Encapsulating the serenity of the scene The varied smiling faces Half from the momentous strut of the bride down the aisle As everyone watches with awe And half from the food they were about to eat Dreams in the air Of the future of those to be wedded The altar overlooking the never ending blue sea Symbolizing the forever of it all Contrasted by the many in the audience Whose minds were already on the future Who would next be wedded The children were playing Innocence and joy Completely unaware of life’s commitment Not knowing one day It would be their own forever - Colin Meany
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“Flowers,” Painting by Emma Castiglione
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“Sailing,” Photograph by Anna Raleigh
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What To Wear (Part II)
She wore a black cloak. Into the night she went, imprinting the snow with each fatal step. She slid past the dilapidated buildings and turned the corner marked by a single broken streetlamp. Stopping before the looming gate, she drew her last breath of fresh air. Her shoes were filled with water and her fi gers danced upon the axe. - Clara Pakman He wore a jet black bomber jacket. It was a jacket like none other: passed from generation to generation since 1948. It was who he used to be: stylish, interesting, and, most importantly, cool. In a sea of navy and green jackets, his black one stood out. But then a pink one came out for the Fall season and his jacket mattered no more. So it hung in his room for years and years, and soon enough it was time to pass it down. Once it was actually passed, it was cool, interesting, and stylish again. And so the cycle went on. - Max Lyakovetsky
She wore a windbreaker to protect herself from the hailstorm. The sky was a dark green color, clotted with black clouds. Her lungs burned from running for so long, all her muscles screamed for her to stop. But there was no time. Soon night would fall, bringing with it the bringer of darkness, the destroyer of worlds. Spiders. - Kate Stamoulis 81
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“Lovecraft” Drawing by Jason Schwartz
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The Imperfect Union The celebration of the matrimony of Mr. and Mrs. Will T. Lastman, took place at the Isleworth Country Club, just a stroke out of town, but still uptown enough to be desired. As August waltzed away with the summer, the waning sun illuminated the gilded ballroom where the guests of the couple stood, shrouded by light pink, silver, and white. Parallel to the cake stood Mr. Lastman’s old Cambridge bud talking with Mrs. Mary Coyland and hiding his married hand in his pocket. He leaned reassuredly back on the table with the three tiered masterpiece, that no one dared tell the mother was lemon not mint. On the table where the sister sat was a pastel bouquet of not-in season pansies, imported cutlery, a champagne glass she now could not touch, and a hand you could almost miss, hovering over her stomach. Across the room stood the caterer, conversing with the conductor, who jostled the man lusting after the roast beef in the corner. He left a c imson stain on the corner of the ironed white tablecloth. It smelled like the Pinot Noir the new Mrs. had consumed the night before, when she had thought of her ex and what used to be and wondered if she still remembered his number. Th s was before the refills, and the bar, and the band, and the pile of tootight Jimmy Choos flung into the corner. Before Sherry Ruthsburg, with her last (she swore) champagne glass in hand, leapt for the bouquet and struck Veronica Brewse in the eye. -Hannah Haden
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“Pastel Jewelry Box,” Pastel Drawing\][ by Chloe Kekedjian
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Peaches Cincinnati winters make me dream of the South. In the frigid seat of the school bus, I drift o visions of peach trees and tanning on the roof, and the foxes stare back at my through frosty windows. - Pendulum Staff
I lost my fox the other day. I tried to lure it back with his favorite food, peaches. I drove my school bus to Cincinnati where I found him on a roof partying with wild horses. - Pendulum Staff
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In Cincinnati, there was a fox named Peach. Every day she would climb up onto her low thatched roof and watch the sun rise. The fox would climb off he roof when she saw children waiting to go to school. She often chased their school bus. She never caught it. - Pendulum Staff
“Uhuru Peak, Mount Kilimanjaro,� Photograph by Rutger Zenner
The fox left Ci cinnati on the roof of a school bus pulled by wild horses fed on peaches. - Jack Hobbs
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When Guns Become A Game “Go, machine gun, shoot! Now! Now!” These are the words that effortlessly pour out of the mouths of middle school boys. Boys this age with whom I’ve interacted use gun apps on their phones, which allow them to switch between the noises of weapons, sometimes wanting to use a machine gun, other times wanting to use the noise of a handgun or an AK-47. To American boys this age, gun talk and the noises of mass weapons scaring innocent people is hilarious and fun. But to me, this is an indication of the terrible gun epidemic in our country. Furthermore, the fact that an app of a virtual closet of every weapon one could possibly imagine exists at their fi gertips is demonstrative of the American glorifi ation of guns. Young boys of America are so terribly in awe of the world of weaponry. Th s example proves a larger point. The frequency of gun violence in America has led to a desensitization of the topic. According to the Gun Violence Archive, in 2016 alone, there have been a total of 49,856 incidents of gun violence.
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These incidents have led to 12,868 deaths and 26,614 injuries. 594 children ages 0-11 have been killed this year due to gun violence. All of these statistics come from only 11 months of the year 2016. It is evident that gun violence is a significant issue in our country. Yet, so many are blind to this, and many passionately defend the Second Amendment. The abundance of gun related deaths in the United States has made the issue more and more ubiquitous. However, this is an issue that must be tackled, and the root of this problem not only comes from the easy purchasing of guns and mass weapons in the U.S., but also from the glorifi ation of guns in American culture. Our children are exposed to weaponry and the world of guns starting at such a young age. From the fi st moment they pick up an Xbox controller to play Call of Duty, they are hooked, believing that guns are not mass weapons that injure and kill so many in our country, but rather that they are entertaining toys to play and joke around with.
“Untitled,� Photograph by Clare Armstrong
The people of the United States must begin to recognize that the exaltation of guns in our country is an issue deeply rooted in our culture. As for the issue of gun violence as a whole, common sense gun control is the only answer to how we can keep mass weapons out of the hands of those who intend to cause harm to our communities. There is a reason why the U.S. has had more public mass shootings than any other country in the world. It is not solely because of our lack of rational gun laws, but also because of the exaltation of gun possession in our country. If young boys in my area marvel at the world of weaponry, I can only imagine how many children across the country are doing the same. -Georgia Rosenberg
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“Untitled,” Photograph by Emma Scanlan
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Paradise is not Sweeping, But Lofted On A Fantasy Paradise is not sweeping, but lofted on a fantasy One needs not travelTo plains and forests to fi d blissFor it is in the eye of the mind While winds howl over raging seas Or sunlight creeps through bony branchesHere I sit, dreaming until dawn breaks the cloudsAnd takes me to where I yearn to go -Kate Stamoulis
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“Miami Beach” Drawing by Jason Schwartz
I Fear the Sea I fear that which I do not understand, And I do not trust the depths of the sea, It’s not the place, nor the creatures, nor sand, But in the vast expanses I’ll not be. I simply hate the way it stretches on, Detest that I can’t see all that I feel, Dislike the way I fear the ocean’s brawn, I simply can’t comprehend the appeal. I feel too overpowered by its size, Uneasy with that which I can’t control, And if I turn my back the sea will rise, And grasp me in its overwhelming hold. And yet, it’s beauty called enticingly, So here I sink, I’m captured by the sea. - Cassie Long
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Where Monsters Lurk Inspired by Frank O’hara’s poem, “song.” This is about my Asthma. He attacks with strength and vigor, Despite the antidote, the threat can get bigger and bigger He turns up at random, I ride with him in tandem. I do not necessarily know when he will leave. But when he departs, then my lungs relieve. When I meet him face to face, I am just trapped in a glass case. Full of shock, I take a puff f air, His punch can be lethal, so please BEWARE! I am in the back seat of a taxi cab, Hoping the next monster who arrives is not too bad.
“Matt Healy,” Painting by Mary Zech
- Lars Ernberg
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Ode To Soap (Part II)
When I would come home from school my mother would tell me “Wash your hands with soap, John!” and I would say “Yes, Mother.” When my mother would serve me dinner she would tell me “Wash your hands with soap, John!” And I would say “Yes, Mother.” Now as I open the door, I hear nothing but silence. And as I gaze to the porcelain, There lays a single, unused bar of soap. I am sorry Mother, I forgot to wash my hands with soap. “Catholic School,” Photograph by Bridget Dalton
- Dennis Polyakov
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“Untitled,” Painting by Cameron Stonehouse
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Day Comes
(Inspired by emily Dickinson)
a day comes and goes a Person leaves a hole is dug the Pain lingers—
another day again and again— over and over no way to -Brody Menzies
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Growing Up Adulthood meant a constant battle against the elements, Like quicksand, whirlpools, and stomping elephants. And alien abduction was an existential threat, Back when I was learning the alphabet. I’m not exaggerating. No -- I’m totally sincere. The thought of witches and mummies consumed me with fear. My life and priorities have since simplified. And my childish worries have been brushed aside. Instead of magic elves and evil robots, Girls and homework occupy my thoughts. -Bilal Memon
”Freestyle 04,” Drawing by Leo Van Munching 98
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Taste She never quite liked the taste of Riesling. And Bailey’s made Her tongue feel fuzzy with all that sugar. A soiree without vermouth? She couldn’t fathom it. And so it was that She left he party early and departed for home. She didn’t care to say goodbye; She and Her hosts were not acquainted. The walk back was quick. If She closed Her eyes, it was only a few steps. She made Her home in an orphanage and Her living from its operation. She hadn’t ever wanted children, but to live among them fascinated Her. They needed much less care than one might think. Tenants were scarce in Her orphanage. After all, orphans were few and far between in this city. Bad City. What few parentless children could be found in the back alleys or empty silos were much sought after. One might, on a swift troll home of an evening, hear a distant squeal followed closely by the screeching of tires or the clatter of hooves. Children, parentless children, were capital in Bad City. They were valued for their effici cy. Her return found the children, in their way, asleep. One could often hear them murmuring through their dreams. Tonight was no exception. Elise wanted milk. Llewyn wanted the pilot to land. Tabby mumbled gibberish. They spoke in whispers and sometimes in tongues. The moon was particularly red that night. She decided to go to bed. Their whispers found Her again in the attic in which she slept. She was familiar with their ways. They would creep from be-
neath the pillow of one child or another, slip up through the walls, and nestle themselves between the sheets beside Her or somewhere in Her robe. Tonight She wouldn’t sleep well, the whispers said as much. Someone had told Her once, in a whisper, that the moon went red not because it was meant to, but because She saw it that way. Because of Her. To Her. Once, he said, the moon had not turned red. The moon, he said, would not turn red. Not often. Not at all. She could not recall such a time. Nights were red, and days were blue. The man from whom She had bought the orphanage had been overkind. His deal was generous, though his palms were closed. He had told Her she could have anything She wanted. Told her She could do anything she wanted. So long as She let their orphan stay. So it was that Elise became the fi st of the children to join Her troupe. Strange that her parents had sent her so willingly away. Or, perhaps,so willingly left er behind. She wasn’t without parents. His wife, though, the wife of that generous man, had warned Her that the house was haunted. She had said that it was infested with the dark. That She oughtn’t stay there. That She should leave. That She should please leave. That She shouldn’t take it. That She shouldn’t do anything there. That She shouldn’t do anything to them there. She had begged Her for those things. But She didn’t believe in spirits. So She stayed. And the generous man and his wife had gone but Elise remained with Her. On that night, the moon had been red. (Continued on page 105)
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“Rebecca,” Mosaic by Mary Zech
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'Untitled,� Drawing by Rebecca Taylor
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(Continued from page 105)
Llewyn’s start was not so different. He had lived just down the way and over a bridge. Not quite alone, but certainly without parents. On a night when the moon had been red, She visited him. He wasn’t alone on that night, not quite. And not ever again. Such was the way with Tabby, too. Alone she had been, but never again. The whispers bothered Tabby the most. They pestered her, spoke to her. Spoke through her. They told Tabby things they wouldn’t tell Her. She often found herself in envy of the girl. The whispers were meant for Her, not her. Once, in whispers, someone had told her the moon would not, for Her, be red eternal. He said, to Her, that She would, soon enough, see the moon as it was once more. She did not wish for any such thing. When the moon was red, She needn’t talk. She needn’t think. She needn’t walk and She needn’t breathe. Her body did for Her things under the red moon. Someone had once, in a whisper, told her that effici cy was of the utmost. Someone had, once, whispered to her that she would leave Bady City.
She found Herself standing over Tabby’s bed. Tabby had told Her once that She was possessed of a horror. She had told Tabby not to listen to whispers. She had told Tabby to see. To look. To look and to see the color of the moon. A red moon, She had told Tabby, was something to tell Her about. Tabby had not told Her anything. Suspect. Under the light of a red moon She found herself standing over Tabby’s bed. Under the light of a red moon She found herself standing over Tabby’s bed with a pillow. Under the light of a red moon She found Herself turning gray. Under the light of a red moon the pillow fell from Her hands. Under the light of a red moon, She found a white moon. Under the light of the moon, She fell asleep. Under the light of the moon, Tabby stopped her talking. Under the light of the moon, She whispered away. - Jack Hobbs
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Urban Nightmare Number Nine The bar is full of people too drunk to remember a thing. Raucous laughter spills out; opening the door makes the bell ring. Snow crunches underfoot as I walk the streets past a darkened store It feels like someone is watching; a shiver races through my core. It’s just the wind, I whisper to no one A gasping voice calls out behind me and I begin to run The knife slides into fle h without making a sound Blood gushes from the cut and drips onto the ground Our eyes meet; I’ve seen this same face every day His footsteps patter down the alleyway Darkness comes as more snow begins to fall The city is quiet, it strangles us all
-Harry Wyckoff 104
“The Way Out,” Photograph by Brendan Casey
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“Refl ctions,” Photograph by Jack Durvasula
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“M.I.T.,� Photograph by Jack Durvasula
His greatest Achievement
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Young and inspired, With unbroken energy and courage, Dedicated to changing the world, He goes for it all.
Behind those elegant pillars he waits, Searching for meaning, To pass the pearl gates, and fi d glory.
The crisp green grass, The timeless trees, And the sterling dome, Make him yearn for more.
On his fi st day, Wanting to cure every problem, He sees his potential, Hoping that it is his time
It is his everything, His pride, passion, and faith, Hoping for that moment, When he is among the greats.
- David Ball
Intruder I have to get home. A place so familiar, yet so hard to fi d A place where I can truly be myself A place I don’t have to hide A place so familiar Yet you took it from me It was a place where I didn’t have to hide But now my home is yours
You took it from me My only source of shelter But now my home is yours And will never return to mine I have to get home A place so familiar, yet so hard to fi d It was a place where I didn’t have to hide But now my home is yours. - Paige Lord
“Scrunched Eyes,” Drawing by Caitlin Conetta
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“Untitled,” Collage by Olivia Schwartz
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Ode To Soap (Part IV)
(illegible title) Animal in sound Begs me to be satisfi d I hope it’s pasta - Pendulum Staff
“Untitled,” Photograph by Lucas Manocherian
Soap is important- to me, and hopefully to any self-respecting member of society. Uncleanliness abounds on this world - of mind, of soul, and of body. The unclean mind is unfortunately irremediable; the unclean soul likewise is uncured. But the body situation can be taken care of. In such a soiled society, hold tight to the only remedy there is, for the only uncleanliness that can be remedied- don’t drop the soap. - Pendulum Staff
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“Untitled,” Photograph by Patrick Evans
“Spring,” Ink Transfer Photograph by Abigail O’Meara
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“Untitled,” Photograph by Michael Pizzani
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A Sea of Mangroves The breeze whips off he sea, leaving the scent of ocean on my skin I can hear the cool water lapping against the rocks in the distance I can feel the shuffl g shrimp and slippery snails sliding over my feet All around me, a panoramic view of pristine nature Covered up to my waist in the sea, My feet dig deep into the sand. I watch the shadows of the fish weave in and out of the mangrove trees. I reach into my bag to fi d my reliable split tail mullet, And throw it out into the ocean. The dual tail fluttering through the breeze as if it was swimming Only to strike the water moments later, Sending shocks and shimmers for all the sea to see I’m engulfed in a disorienting land The crashing waves, the golden sand, the green palm trees. Lost in a land touched by none other, Searching for a way out, or a way to stay forever. -Gavin Haas
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“Intersection,” Photograph by Matthew Murphy
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I am Sorry To Inform You (Inspired by William Carlos Williams) Th t I crashed the car I wasn’t texting I promise Mom Turned a corner slipped on ice and bam in the ditch Right in between a rock and a small mailbox - Nicholas Lange
West Point Dream Th ough hard training, late nights, and early mornings The rigors of the academy push a man to his limit The sound of hard work and determination is in the air The sound of marching chants and men groaning Gun and cannon shots fill the air The woosh of wind as helicopters fly over Canopies fill the sky as paratroopers prepare to land These sights and sounds bring a sense of power and force Pride is seen in the eyes of the long grey line Worn with pride are the grey cadet uniforms -David W. Kim II
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Hell The warm weather and endless possibilities are so close but behind the windows of the classroom. Surrounded by others who long to be anywhere but here, the Proctor gazes around the room. The collective boredom in the room grows as everyone drops their pencils and waits for the eternity to end. The booklet and answer sheet, a representation of the rest of your life that is never quite good enough, sit there in front of you. The misery and sadness of even being here on such a beautiful day are evident on everyone’s face. Not even knowing most of the people in the room, there’s camaraderie from your shared hatred of this room and this stupid test. Waiting for proctor to say, “close your books” seems like a joy that will never come as the minutes of waiting feel like hours. - Dayne Brissette
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“Osage Women,” Photograph by Clare Armstrong
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Ode To Soap (Part III)
Fancy Foreign Soap Vital to my cleanliness Without it, I offend.
“Butterfly Jar,” Ceramic by Anna Camp
- Lucia Wiggers
From the perspective of a teenage girl at Pennyweights: Mom- I need your help. I’m standing in Pennyweights by the rings. I found an awesome one so I tried it on without checking my size… it was too small. Now it’s stuck. They won’t let me leave. Please come quickly- and bring the soap! - Sarah Powless
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“Blue Mind,” Painting by Jake Dobbin
The Vitality of Soap As I wash my body, Soap runs down my limbs. I rub away more and more of my sins. Cleansing myself of these woeful deeds, I plant many seeds Deep under the skin As I rinse the bubbles off, Soap runs down the drain. - Ellie Haljun
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Afloat On my surfb ard Right outside the surf break There is something about Th Calm, Yet Disorienting rocking of the water that Eases My Mind So Pure. Sitting in the Dark Green Oasis Feeling the chill On my feet And on my hands I sway with the Rolling swells With my eyes closed The thunder of waves crashing Lets me see in the dark. The salty spray off he back of the wave Allows me to taste the ocean And quench my thirst for the sea. - Hunter Libman
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“Quitsa,” Photograph by Isabelle Stone
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Heaven and Hell Heaven The soft elvety couch wraps around your body as you fall deeper and deeper into its grip. The familiar voices echo and bounce off he creamy walls creating a white noise that lulls the mind into another realm, placing you into a state of pure comfort. A rainbow envelops the four walls and a feeling of excitement enters your stomach as you gaze up at the felt banners that hold your future. Procrastination with friends is the culture here, and it is impossible not to enjoy.
“St. Martin Sky,� Photograph by Clare Armstrong
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Hell The subtle yet seemingly deafening tick tock of the clock on the wall drills its way into the mind of any captive in this room. The ability to the focus becomes an afterthought and the productivity of any individual goes down the drain as the glass walls put your frustration on display. The white boards around are scribbled upon in fluorescent markers, adding to the chaos of the scene. The sand tan walls seem to creep in closer and closer as the workload gets larger and larger and you can’t help but realize, this is hell. - Alex Nerod
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The Pendulum Staff Ajit Akole Kristen Beaumonte Ellie Haljun Jack Hobbs Chloe Kekedjian Max Lyakovetsky Hannah Mathew Bilal Memon Tucker Menzies Clara Pakman Elizabeth Pettee Dennis Polyakov Alexandra Schwartz Jason Schwartz Jesse Segalla ZoĂŤ Smith Kate Stamoulis Leo van Munching Lucia Wiggers Amelia Wyckoff Harry Wyckoff Mary Zech
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“Hole Bowl,” Ceramic by Kendall Boege
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Acknowledgements Editors: Jack Hobbs and Zoë Smith The editors are the heads of the staff nd oversee all activity within the group. They lead the weekly staff unch meetings and initiate discussion among the group while reviewing written submissions. The editors review artwork as well, working closely with the Art Department to fi d pieces to photograph and archive. They have fi al authority on the acceptance status of all submissions. They also encourage the school community to submit pieces, whether it be on an individual level or at a Town Meeting during the school day. The editors decide the order of pieces as they appear in the print and contact all those necessary to ensure the publication of the magazine.
Layout Designer: Meg Adams The layout designer is in charge of the entire aesthetic component of the magazine. She works with the Art Department to determine visual design and places all written works and artworks. The layout designer also reviews all the works before placing them in the magazine, ensuring that the artistic vision of The Pendulum comes to life on the page.
Faculty Advisor for Literature: Stephen Flachsbart The job of the faculty advisor for literature is to generate enthusiasm for creative writing and to establish a sense of what is good literature. He also helps set the bar for what constitutes “publication quality,” and fosters a positive environment with room for constructive criticism. As head of the English Department, he provides the staff ith a variety of student works from his and other teachers’ classes, works which ultimately constitute a major portion of the magazine’s literature. He is the anchor of the Pendulum, and without him our ship would drift i to a squall of unidentifi d literary submissions and incomplete acknowledgements.
Faculty Advisor for Art: Jeorge Yankura The job of the faculty advisor for art is to aid the art editor and the contributing artists in preparing for the fi al design of the magazine. Th ough this process, she is respon130
sible for teaching InDesign to the layout staff nd also helps in editing and general artistic direction. If Mr. Flachsbart is our anchor, Ms. Yankura is the wind in our sail. She sees the magazine to completion every year and works tirelessly to ensure its aesthetic value, originality, and conceptual integrity.
Technical Notes: The fonts used in this volume of The Pendulum include Orator Standard for headers and titles, Adobe Hebrew Regular for text bodies and page numbers, and a custom font, “Sarah,” created from the handwriting of a former Pendulum staff ember for the title, text body and artwork attribution on page 98. Adobe Hebrew was created in 2004-2005 by John Hudson of Tiro Typeworks. Th s font was specifi ally created for contemporary Hebrew business communications. The Pendulum staff w s attracted to the shape and crisp nature of the letters in this type family. Orator Standard was created in 1962 by John Scheppler for IBM typewriters. Consisitng of both small and large capital letters, the font’s distinguished appearance is striking, yet not overwhelming in its boldness, making it ideal for headers and titles. In order to create the custom font “Sarah” for the publication, staff embers wrote the alphabet in upper and lower case, as well as various punctuation marks, and had them digitally converted to True Type Fonts for use in the publication.
The Pendulum was created using Adobe In Design from the 2015 Creative Cloud. The 2017 edition of The Pendulum was printed with a Kodak NexPress 2500 Digital Production Color Press, at Impression Point Printing by Robert La Banca. It uses Enhanced Dry Ink that produces a consistently high image quality, providing vibrant colors, consistent spot color matching, smooth flat fi ld and gradients, and the unique ability to match the ink gloss level to the substrate being printed. The paper used is Appleton Utopia II Matte Ivory 80# Text.
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