(By contributor) Hadley Ramsay. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Chan Kang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Remcy Boadih. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Adeliene Tse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Jen McIntosh. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Samantha Benedict. . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Jennifer Joung. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Phil Rubin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Chan Kang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Katie Solien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Katie Solien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Liz Tarrant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Abi Taber. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Helena Castro. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Katie Solien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Adelieine Tse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Adelieine Tse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Tatum Leclair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Sarah Noyes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Allie Dawson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Kento Kajima . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Leandra Warren. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Bex Czajkowski. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Bex Czajkowski. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Kristiana Soutirou . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Wesley Chaput . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Lily Connolly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Carly Cote. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Maddie Jamieson . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Boo Graham. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Derek Huang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Zach Bannon. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Antony Zhao. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 John M. Heavey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Ranny Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Lilly Connolly. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Sarah Noyes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Lily Connolly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Lili Whitelaw. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Jennifer Joung. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 India Johnston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Liam Barley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Ariel Etheridge. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Joe Feeney. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gianni Cavallo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rem Boadih. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jon Mabie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hannah Dawicki. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summer Hofeld. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brian Gaillard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Joe Feeney. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jennifer Joung. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Austin Franklin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Connor West. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Grant DeWald. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gianni Cavallo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Mooney. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LuLu Ward. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . So Yeon Kim. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Helena Castro. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jennifer Joung. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lillian Blouin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . So Yeon Kim. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Solien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Antony Zhao. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Antony Zhao. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Laura Krishfield . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Noyes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Andy Wang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shelby Densman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Andy Wang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thomas Kelly. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shelby Densman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Trinity Lynn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chris Botello. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chan Kang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maryclare Bracken. . . . . . . . . . . . Maryclare Bracken. . . . . . . . . . . . Paige McInnis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ivy Torres. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Solien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alex Benoit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ranny Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
36 36 36 37 37 37 38 39 40 40 40 40 40 41 41 42 42 42 42 43 43 44 44 45 45 46 46 46 46 46 47 48 49 50 50 51 51 51 51 51
Tricia K. Smith and Christopher White Co-Editors
Chan Kang ‘14 & Bex C ‘14
Layout Design
Chan Kang ‘14 & Jennifer Joung ‘16
Cover Artist
Jennifer Joung ‘16
Magic Touches of Indesign
Chris Botello & Chae Rin Park ‘15
bow-sprit Pronunciation: ‘bou , sprit NOUN (1) A spar running out from a ship’s bow, to which the forestays are fastened. NOUN (2) Tabor Academy’s Magazine of Arts and Literature Question: What does a stick of wood at the front of a boat have to do with Art or Literature?
Faculty Advisors
Funny we should ask…. At the School By the Sea, nearly every nautical metaphor has flown up the proverbial mast over the years, so it cannot be without irony that we sew new colors to our burgee. Let us wax:
Student Advisor
The bowsprit is the foremost part of a ship. When the vessel sleeps at mooring, the bowsprit appears almost ornamental, often protruding forth above the figurehead at the prow. It is most commonly crafted of varnished wood, a shining piece of brightwork. In simple terms, it looks real pretty up there at front of a boat.
Tricia Smith & Christopher White
Ranny Kim ‘15
Editorial Staff
Jennifer McIntosh ‘15 William Walker ‘15 Gwen McCain ‘15 Rebecca Czajkowski ‘14 Caleigh Harden ‘15
The practical value of a bowsprit is of more importance than its aesthetics, however, as its position on a sailing vessel makes possible a more forward placement of the foremast, providing the vessel better balance, faster speed, and increased ease of steerage. Also, this sturdy appendage holds stays needed to fly the jibs and foresails, which greatly improve the ship’s performance. The jib allows a boat to sail closer to the wind and to make faster, more efficient progress in its voyage; to use another nautical term, it is essential to the ship’s ability to “point.” Not only does the bowsprit enhance the vessel’s capacity for pointing higher, it literally points the way forward, thrusting out from the hull, spearing through fog, above waves and spray, and jousting through the turmoil and calm of the sea. The Bowsprit Magazine collects and focuses the school’s creative expression.It points our vessel in artistic, and often unpredictable directions. Students create and submit most of the work, though some faculty also contribute. Students curate the content, edit the writing submissions, design and produce the layout. Guided by faculty advisors, this magazine showcases the best efforts of our student writers and visual artists. The Bowsprit provides an opportunity for the results of often unseen toil to have a moment in the community spotlight. We are all most pleased to brighten up our Bowsprit this year with a new coat of varnish; for the first time the magazine comes to you in full color! Not only does this allow the visual art to shine as intended, it has allowed us to venture into the ocean of social media with our inaugural Instagram contest, for which we received hundreds of pretty pictures, all tagged with #TABowsprit. A pretty heady task for a magazine to point an entire school community through the sea of life, eh? As they say on cereal boxes, “irony is a part of your nutritious breakfast.” Now that we’ve digested our nautical metaphor, let’s get on to enjoying and reading the amazing art, prose, and poetry of Tabor Academy.
Abi Taber ‘15 3
Hadley Ramsay Peter Paxton was not afraid of the dark… or at least, that is what he liked to believe. He did not use a night-light, or check under the bed before he slept. He did not pull the covers over his head when strange noises sounded in his room. He did not cry when he had nightmares. But on Friday nights after little-league practice, when the mechanic turned off the field lights, Peter felt a strange dread wash over him. And every Friday when Peter would arrive home, panting, eyes wide, his mother would ask him what was a matter. But on this Friday night, Peter would not run home. Peter was not afraid of the dark. “Hey, Peter, if a tree falls in the woods, and there’s no one there to hear it, does it still make a sound?” Griffin Galloway asked him from his spot at first base. Peter loosened his grip on the bat and furrowed his eyebrows, “No.” In that small amount of time that it took Peter to answer Griffin’s question, Trevor Tipton had pitched the ball, and Peter had officially struck out, ending the game. “That’s cheating!” Peter’s teammate called from the bullpen, but it was too late, and Peter knew he probably wouldn’t have hit it anyways. Peter’s coach took the bat from him and gave him a pat on the back as everyone started walking to the parking lot. “They do make a sound, Peter,” he said. Peter left the bright white light of the field, and the laughter of his friends, who all got picked up in warm, safe minivans. He only lived five minutes away; he didn’t need a minivan. “Peter, are you sure you don’t want a ride?” Mrs. Galloway called, leaning out the window of her car. Peter glanced back at the darkness of the woods. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, goosebumps erupting over his forearms. “Yeah,” Peter replied, “I’m sure.” I am almost nine years old. I am not afraid of the dark, he thought to himself. He turned back to woods again and began his trek home. Now it was not so scary. Now Peter could see every root and twig on the trail. He could see every owl in the trees, every squirrel in the leaves. But Peter knew how it went. In about a minute, the mechanic would turn off the field lights, and that’s when it really began. Not tonight, though. Tonight Peter would walk home. So when the lights went out, one by one, fear rooting itself deeper and deeper inside him as they all shut off with that reverberating echo, Peter’s only reaction was the quickening of his heartbeat. He kept his breathing normal, threw on his sweatshirt to stop the goosebumps, and he kept his eyes steady on the seemingly infinite darkness before him. When the final light shut off, Peter almost felt brave. Almost. Then The Happenings started. That’s what Peter had resorted to calling them, since he couldn’t come up with any other name. They were inexplicable instances that repeated themselves every single Friday night.First, Peter would hear the footsteps. Squirrels, he would tell himself, in the leaves.
Then, my own footsteps… echoing. The lights echoed, so of course his footsteps would, too. And these woods were chock full of squirrels. Heck, they multiplied by the minute. Then right about at the stream, the footsteps would stop, as if unable to leap the water with Peter, and they would wait for him at the bank. Second, came the wind. It was so strong that Peter had to take off his ball cap and hold it in his hand, or else lose it forever to the forest. It rattled the branches and swayed the trees—swayed them until they creaked and moaned. Peter would always just keep walking, sometimes covering his ears if the moaning scared him too much. It’s just a windy spot in the woods, Peter concluded. It must always be like this. Then, just like the footsteps, after Peter passed a certain spot on the trail the wind would die all at once. And by the third Happening, Peter had usually begun to run. He had never come up with a suitable explanation for this phenomenon, other than his own wild imagination. But as Peter would run through the woods, stumbling over roots and downed branches, to his left and right he could see white presences—strange suggestions of human figures in the night. He had no excuse for these. Peter did not know of any fog that stood up like creatures might. In fact, he did not know of fog that retained any sort of shape at all. And Peter had never noticed it—having always been running too fast to pay any sort of attention—but these suggestions moved. They stalked out from behind trees and then faded again behind another. Peter walked with his eyes trained on the ground, but he refused to shut them. He was not afraid of the dark. Peter knew of no fourth Happening. On any other Friday night, he would have already been safe at home. But, all at once, the apparitions faded away until Peter was completely alone. He stopped walking. See? Nothing to be afraid of. Now brazen with his findings, Peter strutted forward, pulling his cap snug onto his head and whistling to the tune of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” What had he been so afraid of? Echoes? The breeze? Some mist in the woods? Peter began to sing aloud, “For it’s One! Two! Three strikes—,” Peter could not finish by the excruciating pain that exploded from in his chest. It was as if his whole heart had been set on fire. “Three strikes, you’re out,” a voice whispered from the darkness. The boy looked down at his chest and clasped at his little-league jersey. He coughed and fell to his knees, bones quivering in his legs from hitting the cold ground. The boy continued to claw at his chest, as if trying to rip the pain away, but his heart seared as hot as ever. He looked to the trees, meeting a pair of shadowy eyes glittering there. They were eager and interested, but calm. Peter Paxton realized something then: that of course he was not afraid of the dark—he was only afraid of what lurked there. And he wondered, at last, that if a boy screams in the woods, and there’s no one there to hear it, does he still make a sound?
Remcy Boadih
It’s winter time with snow on the ground. I just got home after a long week of school. I opened the door and closed it, not bothering to lock it. Mom will be home in like two hours. No need to lock it, right? I plop down on the couch and turn on the TV, putting the volume on high. I flip through the channels, only to find that there’s nothing good on TV. Damn it, there’s never anything good to watch at 2 in the afternoon. Since there’s nothing better to watch, I decided to settle on watching the news. I get up from the couch to go to the kitchen. I always love having a snack after school. As I pour myself a glass of milk, I hear the featured story on the news from the other room. The featured story is about a serial killer who is on the loose in my neighborhood. That’s unusual. A serial killer in this area? The person is probably on the other side of the neighborhood. This is a really big neighborhood. I think to myself to calm myself down. I start to listen more intently until I see something out of the corner of my eye that looks out of place. Through the kitchen window, above the sink, I see a man in the snow in the middle my backyard, and he’s staring right at me. I had no idea who the hell this man is, but since he’s outside, it didn’t bother me too much. I put the milk back into the fridge and turn around. I see something move out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t think much of it, as I already know that I am being paranoid. I make my way back to the living room, put my food down on the table, and plop down on the couch once again. I look outside through the porch sliding door that leads to the backyard, only to see that that man is back. He looks familiar... I look from him, to the TV, showing the profile of the serial killer. Oh my freaking gosh... It’s time to call the cops! I quickly stand up and reach for the phone. I look outside to make sure that this guy was still there. I look around him to see how he had gotten into my backyard without breaking the lock on the backyard gate. That’s when I realized... There were no footprints in the snow. “How did he get into the middle of my backyard without leaving any footprints?” I thought out loud, my question coming out in a shaky breath. He smiled in response, as if he heard my question. That was when the realization had hit me. I wasn’t actually looking at him. I was looking at his reflection. Chan Kang ‘14
My mouth and phone both drop at the same time out of shock. The phone hits the ground and the batteries fall out after the casing pops out. I slowly turn my head around to come face-to-face with the man who I thought was standing outside. He is still smiling as he puts a finger to his lips, signaling for me to be quiet. Honestly, I couldn’t have screamed, even if I wanted to - I was in too much shock. He flips out an army-grade knife and slowly wags it in front of my face. He puts the side of the cool blade against my face, slowly trailing it down my face and along my jaw-line. I tremble in fear as my eyes water. I’m crying, and I’m too scared to even try to do something about it. He puts the knife 7
against his lips, once again signaling for me to be quiet. Then there’s silence. His eyes never leave mine, even as he swiftly brings the knife down and stabs me in the abdomen.
by my bedside, making him face me, and set my mom down at the foot of my bed, also making her face me. My dad’s glossy eyes staring down at me and open-hanging mouth made me want to cry.
***
The monster made its way to the wall that is opposite of my bed and used its hands to carve a message onto the wall. It was finishing its masterpiece, and it wanted to make sure that I saw it. After it was done, it took its place under my bed, waiting. It’s okay. It’ll be gone in the morning. I just have to keep on acting like I’m sleeping. This was the only way that I could comfort myself, because if I accept the fact that it’s real, I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t leave my bed, because once I do, I know that I’ll be dead. I’ll be brutally murdered, just like my parents were.
I bolted awake in a cold sweat, almost hyperventilating. I quickly looked down at my stomach to see if that dream was real. I lifted up my shirt, only to see nothing. No pain, no blood, no marks, nothing. I looked over to the clock that sits on my night stand, seeing the red LED numbers reading ‘2:23 am.’ That dream felt TOO real. I never wake up in a cold sweat. And I usually never dream. There’s something wrong. I don’t know what it is, and I’m not too sure if I even wanna know that it is, but I know I’m going to find out, sooner or later. I first did a scan-check of my room to see if anything was out of the ordinary. I grabbed the flashlight that I keep under my pillow and quickly clicked it on. I started to shine the white ray of light in all corners of my room, only to see that everything was still in tact. I sighed in relief, seeing that the coast was clear. I clicked my flashlight again, turning it off, and put it back under my pillow. Gosh, I probably looked like a scared little bitch just now. It’s not like I’m afraid of the dark, or anything. I’m just afraid of what could be in the dark.
But the curiosity was starting to get to me. What had that monster written on the wall? No! I have to keep acting like I’m sleeping! It can’t wait there forever... After waiting for about ten minutes, the curiosity was too much for me. I looked at the wall opposite of my room to see what message that monster had left for me: “I know you’re awake.”
I got out of bed, put on my slippers and walked towards the door. I poked my head out of my bedroom door. The creaking from my door seemed like it was amplified one-hundred times louder than it actually was. Gosh, I’m really freaking out. Even with my eyes dilated, I couldn’t see much, as all of the possible light sources were covered by blinds. As I walked a bit more towards the hallway, there was a weird smell. It smelt like... Iron? Blood? My eyes widened in realization. I almost jumped at the hallway light switch five feet ahead of me to turn it on and nearly fainted at what I saw. There were blood stains on the floor and on the wall. The stains looked fairly fresh as well. They started to set in, but it didn’t look more than two hours old. They were in such a way that it looked like whatever had left those blood stains was dragged along the hallway. My eyes followed the trail to see that it lead to my parents’ bedroom. “Oh no...” My voice barely came out as a whisper. I briskly made my way to my parents’ bedroom and turned the doorknob with shaky hands. I slowly pushed the door open about two inches to see a dark figure in the corner waiting for me. I didn’t have the slightest idea as to what the hell it was. It had a big build with a humanoid body. It had long, pointy fingers and no facial features, except for a large and deformed mouth with sharp teeth. It was hairless and clothes-less. I squealed like a dying pig and bolted to my room. I slammed my door shut and ran to hide under my covers and pretended to be asleep. Maybe it’ll just go away if I act like I’m asleep. Y’know,I’m probably just having a really bad dream. Yeah, that’s it.
Adeliene Tse ‘15
I don’t know how long I was waiting. It could have been twenty minutes, or it could have been two hours. It just felt like I was waiting for a really long time. The monster opened my door and came into my room, carrying my dead parents. I took a peek from under my covers as it set my dad down
8
9
Jen McIntosh Warm almonds creep up on your nose one empty, cold day. Leaves cascade around you in the
At least there are still almonds.
most obtrusive manner, filling your eyes and ears and skin with death and a dry kind of despair.
You remember sitting in that little blue house with your mother as she baked those almond
Everything is dying, everything but the almonds that fill your nose and envelop you from the
cookies. Warm and soft, they saved you from the rain and biting wind that made your shutters
inside out.
tremble.
A year ago everything was exactly the same, but everything was different.
You remember crunching almonds between your teeth on the way to school. Snacking between
That little blue house in the woods where you spent your childhood weaving in and out of couches and chairs building forts that held your secrets and dreams still stands. The trees that protected you from the evils of the world stand as strong and true as ever, whispering in the wind and watching you grow. Everything is the same, everything but you. Shadows and dark twisting things found their way through the trees, riding the wind and filling up your world. It was like falling asleep; at first they crept in slow and quiet and then surrounded you all at once and there was nothing to be done to stop them. The leaves that once protected you from the harsh world outside now blot out the stars and the sunlight. The warm glow and sparkle of the future slowly dimmed and greyed until there was nothing left
classes and during those solitary lunches kept you sane while they replaced colored blocks and games with endless pages filled with the nonsensical ramblings of people convinced they have the world figured out. You look up as the leaves that once protected you crash to the ground, dead and dying with no hope of becoming green and new once again. Your own green is fading, and you have one last taste of almonds in the hopes of returning to the past and joining the downpour of leaves and the
life you once knew.
but concrete and cold. Even that little blue house with its forts and childlike splendor has begun to sag and become rickety with the years, soon it will no longer be able to hold itself together and Jennifer Joung ‘16
what little haven you once had will be gone.
Background image by Samantha Benedict ‘15
Phil Rubin I didn’t have to worry about non-existent monsters in closets or under beds as a kid. I would sit in the darkness of my room with my tiny brother and we got to listen to real monsters. Mom screaming her lungs out in the living room. Dad sitting there, listening. He would never get mad and he would barely move and that would make mom even angrier. She would hit him and sometimes she would cry but he would just sit there quietly, smoking cigarettes, hands in his lap and head down. Danny and I would sit together in the dark often times holding hands until one of us fell asleep. Sometimes I would tell him, “It’s ok,” and sometimes he told me. We would say it back and forth, over and over hoping the repetition would make it true. But it didn’t. It wasn’t ok. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to be big and strong. I wanted to hold mom back, make dad say something and most of all I wanted to leave it all behind.
“Do you love mom?” I asked. He cracked a rare smile and pat me on the head, “Love finds you in life sometimes even if you don’t want it to. You’ll attract it like honey attracts a bee.” We went back to silence while I tried to figure that out. I wanted to ask him why mom hit him and why he didn’t say anything but I suppose if we wanted me to know he would tell me. I must have fallen asleep at some point because I woke up in my bed the next morning wearing pajamas. The smell of bacon got me up and carried me to the kitchen where mom manned the pans while dad was flipping pancakes. “Happy birthday, dude.” My brother tells me. He’s sitting across from a plate on the kitchen table with my name written in jellybeans. “Happy birthday!” Mom and dad say together happily as I sit down. Mom comes up behind me and kisses me on the head, and says, “You’re a big boy now, what’s your wish?”
One night I crawled out of my blanket fort and got dressed in my winter clothes. I put pillows under the blankets and sculpted an imitation me, but I knew it didn’t matter. My parents never checked. Tiptoeing to the front door I took a packet of cigarettes and the lighter my father left lying around and slipped out into the night. It was cold out; almost a foot of snow had fallen over the past few days and the neighborhood kids had all made snowmen. Danny and I hadn’t been invited. I walked down the street smoking, looking for the best snowman on the block. Zack had the best. It was the biggest because he had the biggest lawn and the most snow to use. He put a real scarf and hat on it, real buttons for eyes, a big smile, and even a carrot nose. I looked at its face and it seemed cruel that a snowman could be so happy. Reaching up I put out the cigarette on its button eye. With gloved hands I hit the snowman’s body over and over again until my breath ran out and I fell over next to it. That’s how it feels then, I thought, knowing your target won’t hit back. I looked at the snowy pulp I had made of the innocent snowman. I wasn’t happier, just less angry. Right then, lying next to Zack’s snowman, I was sure of three things. First being that growing up sucks. Second was that I had to run away, hopefully to a happier place but I’d settle for just about anywhere. Third was that it was too cold for me to run away tonight. I would wait until tomorrow and then I would run away for sure. Back at my house I took my boots off before going in and quietly tip-toing back to my room, but not before putting the pack of cigarettes back where I found it, one stick lighter. I was just starting to undress when I noticed him, watching me. My heart sank. “Come with me, I don’t want to wake your brother,” dad said sternly. I followed him to the garage and we got into the car, he let me sit up front with him. “Am In trouble?” I asked as we pulled farther and farther away from the house. “For what?” He asked. “I snuck out and beat up Zack’s snowman.” I answered. “Zack’s an asshole.” He told me. We drove in silence for a while.
Chan Kang ‘14
“You know I love you and your brother very much, right?” His face, lit up in the streetlight intervals, looked distant. I pretended to think for a second and nodded. 12
13
Katie Solien Our SUV jostled along the beaten dirt path up to the base of Heart Mountain. During World War II, Heart Mountain loomed over a "Jap Camp" called home by Japanese-Americans. My Jichan, grandfather in Japanese, was one of the 14,000 Japanese-Americans interned there. The government argued that the internment camps would protect the Japanese-Americans from racial hysteria, but in reality, the residents were prisoners. The guns from the nine watchtowers were pointed inside, not out. Everyday Jichan and his friends would look beyond the barbed wire fence at the towering silhouette of Heart Mountain. Until one day, they decided to climb the mountain. Early one morning, the four boys sneaked under the barbed wire fence, unseen by the armed guards in the watchtowers. They walked four miles to the mountain and climbed up to the summit, returning home just before supper. The tale of the boys’ secret adventure eventually became a celebrated part of the camp’s history, and one of the family stories I loved to hear him tell. Seventy years later, my family decided to join Jichan as he conquered the mountain one last time. Within the first few steps of the three-mile hike, my mind was already wandering. I remembered walking into a room no larger than my kitchen. It's walls were wood planks insulated for frigid desert nights with thin tar paper. One single light bulb illuminated the room, casting a dull yellow glow over the dirt floors. I struggle to comprehend how the army barrack housed Jichan and his seven other family members. I cannot imagine how they were ever able to call it home. "I AM AN AMERICAN." The famed photograph of the bold declaration above a Japanese-American grocery store burns my subconscious as I climb up the mountainside. The sign defiantly proclaims loyalty and patriotism for one's country. I wonder if Jichan's family had any similar signs on the windows of their family grocery store. Am I an American? Every school day I place my hand over my heart and robotically pledge my allegiance. Every July 4th I wear red, white, and blue. I religiously watch football every Sunday night. Ieat McDonalds. If I were deported to the desolation of the Wyoming desert, I wonder if I would be ablesay with pride and confidence that I am an American. As the summit came into view, I hiked along side Jichan with a reassuring hand on his back. As he let out his last deep, exhausted breath before reaching the peak, his fatigue and weariness melted away. Leaning against his walking stick, Jichan's body showed the typical signs of age, but in his eyes I saw the young boy who fearlessly pursued the freedom unjustly taken from him. Standing with Jichan, taking in the expanse of open sky that went on forever, I understood the true meaning of freedom, the courage to persevere, and the power of forgiveness.
14
Katie Solien ‘15
15
Abi Taber ‘15 Adelieine Tse ‘15
Katie Solien ‘15
Adelieine Tse ‘15
Liz Tarrant ‘16
Helena Castro ‘14 16
17
Tatum Leclair
“And I thought-- Celia? Are you okay?” Sarah asks, peering at her face.
“Sorry. Give me a sec,” Celia sighs, putting the sketch pad back into her lap. She stares
“I’m going to send you another. I think we’ve seen this one before. Talk to you soon.
Keep me updated,” Sarah says crisply, grabbing the phone with her hand and ending the call.
“Looks like we’ve got more work to do.” Sarah smiles at Celia. Celia rolls her eyes.
straight ahead, not glancing once at the page, but rapidly draws shapes and figures. She pauses for a moment, her hand freezing, and blinks. Then she immediately starts drawing again.
Sarah, fondly remembering all of their joint childhood efforts to break Celia’s trance,
glances at Celia’s expressionless face before turning on her phone. There go the pupils- white and completely dilated, hungrily taking in some medium that isn’t light. It shouldn’t be too long
First a young girl appears on the page- all big curls, round eyes, and chubby cheeks. She
sits, playing with blocks on the floor of a room with a couch. Then comes her blob of a shadow, and in the corner, another shadow- a longer one that stalks towards her.
Once the image is finished, the pencil slowly veers off the page and her hands shake
violently. She yawns, stretching, and blinks rapidly, the opaque white disappearing and revealing her recognizable, tired, brown eyes. Sarah takes the pad of paper out of her lap.
“Yeah, Glen? It’s Sarah. There’s another little girl gone missing,” Sarah says, holding her
phone to her ear with her shoulder. She flips furiously through the hundreds of faces in the sketchbook, looking for one in particular.
“I’ll send you a fax of Celia’s sketch so the guys can take a look. Maybe it’ll get those
sitting ducks off their asses.” She stops on a page and holds it up to show Celia. Celia’s eyes
Sarah Noyes ‘15
widen and she nods vigorously. 18
19
Leandra Warren
Allie Dawson Hope is debilitating. What is hope? It’s great, so they say. It’s all you need, or at least that’s what they tell you. But what is it? They talk about false hope. I don’t think that there’s another kind of hope. Because hope is something you invent for yourself. Something to keep you going when reality isn’t enough. Hope can be great and all. But hope can also kind of suck. It’s too fragile, too unreliable. Too dangerous. You can’t just “hope” something will happen. What happens when whatever you’re putting your trust into fails you? Lets you down? The illusion disappears, hope can’t help you.
Dreaming of a Faraway Place
Where the grass grows greener,
Where the aroma of flowers is stronger,
People are crazy about hope. They love it. Because hope is ignorance, and ignorance really is bliss. Hope is making too much out of things, ignoring the facts. It’s seeing what you want to see instead of what’s in front of you. People will cling to hope with every fiber of their being, till their last naïve breath.
Where the air is Sweeter, And Life is better.
Hope is beautiful. It is trusting that someone you love loves you too. Trusting that what you know won’t fail you. Raising expectations and hoping to whatever God you may or may not believe in that you find what you’re looking for. Hope comes with a rush of adrenaline-fueled relief, the kind of rush that can sustain a person indefinitely.
Dreams
When hope shatters, you shatter. It will crush you without a second thought, kick you in the ribs and leave you crying and lost, breathless and alone. Hope will sustain you, keep you alive until the very second that it kills you. It will string you along and leave you hanging. It doesn’t need to ask for power because you will give it power gladly, unthinkingly. Hope is great, until it isn’t. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Give it a shot or run screaming in the other direction. It’s up to you. Hope is beautiful, but hope sucks. It’s reckless. What is hope? I don’t know, but I know I’m trapped in its embrace. And if you aren’t Hope’s prisoner yet, you will be.
Where I can escape from the sadness and coldness of my life But I know that tomorrow Morning
When I Wake up
It will all be over And The sweet smell of flowers, and the candy-like smell of air Will turn to the dusty stench of the old walls that trap me and reality will hit me like a wave of Sorrow.
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Kento Kajima ‘14
Background image by Bex Czajkowski ‘14
“You said we were gonna go sledding today and then have a picnic in Paris,” tears began to roll down her cheeks. “We can go tomorrow, I promise.” “You said we were gonna go today!”
Bex Czajkowski
“I know Luce, but Emma wanted to dance today.” “She always wants to dance Joey, she’s a painting!”
“Joey, come out of there!” Lucy knocked on the frame of the oil painting, almost rocking it off of the nail it was hung on. Tired of calling her brother’s name, she leaned against the grandfather clock that ticked incessantly in their foyer, sliding down until she was on her butt and slumped over her knees. She let her gaze wander listlessly over the walls, following the maze of landscapes and portraits her father painted the walls of their house with. The newest one, the one Joey refused to leave, was in a knotted wood frame dyed a light blue to make it stand out against the faded salmon of the wall. The other paintings filled up the space like an elaborate puzzle. Their father made sure to hang them low enough so Joey and Lucy could climb in and explore their far reaches, tread the frothy waves that he had swirled with his own brush, and roam the expansive hills with the zebras who had stripes hastily swiped on their back. Even from across the room Lucy would see the tiny figures twirling their skirts and bowing after each dance, the figments of her father’s imagination coming alive on the canvas. If she squinted hard enough, she could just make out Joey, dipping the girl he had met the afternoon their father had hung the painting, the girl who Joey had been sneaking out of his room for in the middle night. From her bed Lucy could hear the step stool he had built her when she was too little to reach the bottom rows of frames, creaking now under his weight as he climbed into the painting.
“Oh come on Luce, you’re just a kid. What do you know?” He grabbed the top of the frame with one hand and began to lower himself back into the painting as Emma straightened her skirt and met him with a smile. The tears on Lucy’s face burned her cheeks as they rolled down onto her shirt. She fought to relax her clenched fists and tight shoulders, but before she knew it she was staring back into her brother’s face, the oil paints melting his features into one another. She saw the ruffle of Emma’s skirt as he twirled her around an older couple that was gently swaying along with the music. Rage filled Lucy’s ears, her eyes, her hands that gripped the sides of the frame once again with white knuckles. Her arms braced the weight of the painting, but before she could spill the figures into one another, the wood split in her hands and the clatter of the painting collapsing into the ground echoed in her head. She swept up every splinter, every stained piece of wood, but her efforts were futile. Lucy lay weeping over the painting of the dancers that swayed joyfully to the song of a violin and piano, the one with the young man with steel grey eyes twirling the pretty girl.
Joey was breaking the one cardinal rule of paint jumping; don’t become too attached to the paintings. Almost every newspaper reported daily the unfortunate demise of a paint jumper who had been squashed by a runaway apple, made too plump and round by the artist, or trampled by an unruly stallion, who’s defined haunches proved to be fatal. Lucy could only go jumping if Joey was there. If their father knew that Joey had been skipping school to spend the day in his new painting, he would break the frame, cutting off any jumping back and forth. Her patience running short, Lucy jumped up and grabbed the sides of the frame with both hands and shook it, the blue staining her hands. The figures, more clear now that she was closer, toppled into one another, the violinist breaking his bow over the head of the chubby man playing the piano. A man apologized profusely to a woman he had spilled his drink on. A waiter fussed over shards of plates that littered the floor. Joey was flung onto the other side of the room, the tails of his coat snagging the corner of the stage. The girl he had been sweeping across the floor collapsed on her disproportionate heels, and a deep red creeped into her cheeks. Lucy carefully placed the frame back on it’s hook and had begun to turn when she felt her brother’s heavy hand grasp her shoulder, his thumb digging into her shoulder blade. “What the hell Luce?” Joey’s upper body materialized from the canvas, the oil paint rippling on his shirt where it met the painting. He let go of her shoulder and perched himself up on the frame as she turned to meet his steel grey eyes with her own puffy ones. Kristiana Soutirou ‘15 22
23
Wesley Chaput
What is buried here? The stone walls have no mortar brushed away by wind or rain or it was never there the stones now slumped in the grass like an old man dead in his chair. The headstones lean crazily like bad teeth moldy and lichen-capped, drifting from their rows as if pulled and replaced without care. In the back by the crypt The dead grass veils the names, the scabbed granite barely visible. Nothing lives in the earth atop the crypt. Just refuse , leaves and brown vines and a cross hacked from a mottled vein juts from the peak of the arch. The lock is rusted, fused, welded.
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Lily Connolly ‘14
25
daughter is that Brianna’s fake, ungrateful, lazy year and a half will always out-do my
Carly Cote
Tendu, prep, pirouette, Formation change. My baby drifts towards the back
allowing that little brat to steal the spot light. She flashes her cheshire smile, revealing clearly bleached teeth. What kind of mom lets her eleven year old bleach their teeth? Calypso, double stag to the floor, backward shoulder role, three eight counts and another formation change. This time its a pyramid, with twinkle toes at the tip, and my angel in the back row. Next to me I see the selfish kid’s mother tear up. She’s so over dramatic. I look to my left and watch the choreographer smile with every smooth turn and perfectly straight kick that Brianna executes. I want to vomit on the teacher and
baby’s eleven years of hard work and dedication.
I enter the dressing room, slamming the door shut behind me and immediately
spot that gorgeous pink dress, with rhinestones covering ones shoulder, an embroidered bodice and a lace skirt that would make even a girl with the worst lines have the best extensions. The only issue? That is Brianna’s solo costume. It’s not like she already has a million just collecting dust in her closet at home. I rummage through my bag and pull out the brightest lipstick I can find. Snatching the costume off the hanger, I sit down and begin to write. M, that stupid little girl. I, my baby and I work so much harder than her. N, her mom doesn’t even sew her own daughter’s pointe shoes or give the studio Christmas presents. E, Brianna will fail.
then break every single bone in Brianna’s pathetic little body. I rush out of the auditorium, knowing that another second of looking at Brianna’s waxed eyebrows would have me up on stage stealing the spot light from that untalented piece of crap.
Does anyone respect longevity around here? Merit? Persistence? I was the one
who brought my little girl to Dance Innovations before she could walk, or even talk while Brianna’s motley crew studio-hopped just over a year and a half ago. Yeah thats right. I said it. Studio hopper, studio hopper, studio hopper. That’s all Brianna and her bitch of a mom really are. I was the one who fought for my daughters spot on the competition team. I was the one who held her for hours on end because of the awful things choreographers had said to her. It is sad, really. The only thing that this is teaching my
26
Maddie Jamieson ‘14
your middle-aged teacher. His eyes are locked to the bouncing body parts on the screen. You cringe.
Boo Graham When you’re in school, people tell you that you are getting a needed education and that you will learn to be a better person. However, nobody ever said that you would be reading William Shakespeare. You reach eighth grade. This is the year. The year you become a scholar. You receive your copy of Macbeth or Romeo and Juliet. This is the day you’ve been waiting for since you were in the sixth grade. You were told that Shakespeare is full of innuendos and potentially awkward scenes to be read aloud with your middle-aged teacher. Ahh, perfect. This is the day that you, as an awkward lanky middle schooler, finally read about sex. Awesome.
You realize that they were right. Shakespeare does have sex in it. But, they didn’t tell you that you would be forced to read about it out loud with adults in the room with them writing SEX in big letters across the board just incase you didn’t get it. But you did. You go home and decide that you should just Google the play. You discover Sparknotes. Your life changes, that is until you are told that you aren’t allowed to use it in high school. You are an eighth grader. You will follow the rules. Or so you think…
Now, there are a few things that no one ever told you. First, they never told you that the English in Shakespeare’s lifetime were stupid and talked weird. Curse you, unidentified people!! Then, suddenly it makes sense to you – THEY stands for Terrible Higher Education Years. Since you are now prepared to never understand what your English classes are about for the next five years, you open the book. Now, you cry. Who in the Sam Hill is Venusia and why is he in Italy, you think. Finally, it occurs to you to look it up! However, as a mere eighth grader, you have not completely realized the full potential of the Internet. So, you try the thing they told you to use in class. Gsoally? No… Gloddary? Nope... OH THE GLOSSARY!! You think. Your subconscious – a small old woman wearing glasses reading Art of War by Sun Tzu, nods slowly. Now, you open to the back of the book, searching for the glossary. You find out Venusia is a place, not a person. You got this! You return to the first page. You begin to read, then realize that you don’t know what language you are reading. All the “thees” and “thous” and “shalls” and “thys” and thighs and chicken wings and mashed potatoes make a completely new language. Glossary, glossary, glossary. You open to the glossary again, but this time there isn’t an answer. After crying a little longer you FINALLY get to something a bit better. Maybe. “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite,” you read. Your immature eighth grade is on the ground laughing. You read innuendos that aren’t even there. You check the time. It’s been an two hours and you still don’t know what you’re reading. But, you must read up to act three! You cry a little more.
Derek Huang ‘15
It’s movie day. You walk into class looking forward to doing nothing. Then your teacher tells you that he called your parents. You become concerned. He’d asked permission for you to watch the nude scenes of Romeo and Juliet. He turns on the movie. You realize you are not prepared to see naked people, and that you really are an immature eighth grader, not the “adult” that teachers say you are. You begin to hyperventilate. Then, before you now it, it’s the scene. You can’t help but look at
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29
Zach Bannon
I have all these thoughts converging. Left over ideas Which Are from the previous test. “I should have answered C.” I can’t control my thoughts from wandering. I gaze out the window in remorse of Foolish Mistakes. I will continue on with my day Crazed with reoccurring thoughts of the misery of that test.
This daily struggle of mine.
Antony Zhao ‘14
John M. Heavey
In the hurly-burly Of lunch period, Bud slumps At the usual corner table. Pimpled. Cow-licked. Brown bag in hand. Within the loving mother-folds Of wax paper, The day’s asylum: Oscar Meyer’s staple, Redolent of July franks In steamy bleachers, Smeared with radioactive yellow French’s. A few bites offered respite From those days Land-mined with The jeering taunt, The stuttering shame.
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Ranny Kim ‘15
He wanted her To cross the lunchroom, With her doe-eyed gaze Settle next to him, The two of them, Side by side. Then he would slowly slide His half sandwich over to her, Their fingers Touching Above the airy cushion Of Wonder Bread.
Lilly Connolly ‘14
33
India Johnston ‘14 Liam Barley ‘16
Lily Connolly ‘14 Sarah Noyes ‘15
Lili Whitelaw ‘16 34
Jennifer Joung ‘16 35
Sarah Noyes ‘15
Jon Mabie’ 17
Gianni Cavallo ‘16
Hannah Dawicki ‘16
Joe Feeney ‘17
Rem Boadih ‘14
38
Summer Hofeld ‘17
Ariel Etheridge ‘14
39
Brian Gaillard
The chill in the air brings him. He rushes in, taking away the daylight. Everything seems to die when he comes. He loves the pure works of art that cover the land In a frozen blanket. He causes the cold spears That hang from the ceilings And the flat, new, chilling plains. He is the arctic, the frigid, the numb Then gradually, He disappears And the chill in the air, Is gone once again.
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Joe Feeney ‘17
41
Austin Franklin ‘16
LuLu Ward ‘16 Grant DeWald ‘14 Connor West ‘15 Gianni Cavallo ‘16
Jennifer Joung ‘16
Katie Mooney ‘14 42
43
Lillian Blouin ‘16
Katie Solien ‘15
So Yeon Kim ‘14
Helena Castro ‘14
Jennifer Joung ‘16
So Yeon Kim ‘14 44
45
Antony Zhao ‘14
Laura Krishfield ‘14
Antony Zhao ‘14 46
47
Shelby Densman ‘14
Shelby Densman ‘14
Background image by Samantha Benedict ‘15
Trinity Lynn
od almighty God, G speak the truth! Has one of your angels caused one to cry, denied reality, or told a lie?
Andy Wang ‘14
Has one of them sinned and still lives amongst the clouds, in the land of royal blues, gold, precious whites, and pureness? God almighty god, speak the truth! Thomas Kelly ‘16
Explain why there is such thing as a sinning angel; An angel by the name of Love
Andy Wang ‘14
48
49
Chris Botello
And Sam said, “Thanks,” and the priest said, “But there’s just one problem. The pants are too long.” “What can I do?” Sam asked. “Bend your knees slightly,” the priest said, “to take up some slack.” So he bent his knees slightly, and the priest said, “There now it’s perfect.”
It was his first suit, custom-made, with his name sewn on the inside pocket and four buttons on each wrist that actually unbuttoned. He stood in the three-way mirror and thought he looked good from every angle. He raised his eyebrows at the Chinese tailor, a request for an opinion, but the man spoke no English. He walked back to the apartment on the warm afternoon in his new suit and good-leather shoes. He imagined admiration from the men he passed by, and from the ladies, attraction.
And so Sam continued on his walk home, chin tucked, shoulders hunched, bent at the waist, hands curled into fists, and bent at the knees. He passed two old women sitting together waiting for a bus, and one said to the other, “Look at that poor man. So unfair for someone so young.” “Yes,” said the other. “But that’s a very nice suit he’s wearing.” “True,” said the first. “And it fits him so well.”
His wife, who was always one to hover and fuss, said “Oh Sam you look so good in your new suit. And the material. So nice. But there’s just one problem. The cloth is pinched at the back of the neck.” She moved him to the full-length mirror and turned him to the side. “See,” she said. “It pinches.” “What can I do?” he asked. “Tuck your chin,” she said, “and hunch your shoulders slightly forward.” So he tucked his chin and hunched his shoulders slightly forward. “Perfect,” she said. “Now go to the grocer and bring home the order.” When he arrived at the store, the grocer said, “Sam, look at you so sharp in your new suit! But there’s one problem. It’s the length of the jacket. It’s too short.” “What can I do?” Sam asked. “Bend slightly forward at the waist,” So he bent slightly forward at the waist, and the grocer said, “There, now it’s perfect.” Just then the grocer’s wife came from out back to say the order wasn’t ready, that she’d send the boy to deliver, no charge. “Doesn’t Sam look sharp in his new suit?” the grocer asked her. “He sure does,” she said. “But there’s one problem. The sleeves are too short.” “What can I do?” Sam asked. “Curl both hands into fists,” she said, “then turn them inward to make them not so long.” So he curled both hands into fists and turned them inward, and she said, “There now it’s perfect.” And he thanked her and left. On his way back to the apartment, he passed the church, and the priest standing out front said, “Sam you’re looking pretty snappy in that new suit.” 50
Chan Kang ‘14 51
Then the stars come out to play The silver moon hangs from the sky like a disco ball And the sky turns gray. Nocturnal folk come out from hiding after all.
Ivy Torres ‘14
The sun sails across the sky to the other side, West from where it arose And kisses the vast region below.
Paige McInnis ‘14
Maryclare Bracken
Alex Benoit ‘14
Maryclare Bracken ‘17
Ranny Kim ‘15
Katie Solien ‘15
They dance all night until the sun begins to climb up the sky. once again.