Rings, Strings and Other Things by Norfolk Academy

Rings, Strings, & O ther Things

V olume X X X V I 2 0 17

taff Editors- in - C h ief Jaden Baum ’17 Noa Greenspan ’18 A rt Editor Tori Walker ’18 Coffeehouse Chair Ellie Whitmore ’17 Staff

McRaye Forsyth ’17 Larson Kaidel ’17 Emily Mesisco ’17 Kate Anderson ’18 Cam Call ’18 mma hristoffersen ’18 Gabriella Diskin ’18 Mariah Moss ’18 Fiona Murchake ’18 Mary Alice Russell ’18 Kara Kaufman ’19 Madeleine Munn ’19 Emme Pike ’19 Emma Somers ’19 Ellie Thornton ’19 Peyton Tysinger ’19 Windsor Warlick ’19

Faculty Advisor Charlotte Zito ’99 Art Advisor Knox Garvin P rin ter Professional Printing Center 2

Editor’s Letter Dear Reader, Putting together this year’s literary magaz ine has truly been an incredible experience. We have read through pages and pages of poems and prose that reflect all the creativity this community has to offer. We are so glad that you have shared your w riting and art w ith us, opening your hearts and minds to the Lit Mag staff and fellow students. We have done our best to show case these outstanding w orks in the Lit Mag you hold in your hands. Fueled by coffee, goldfish, and H ershey’s kisses, w e spent hours troubleshooting I nDesign and adorning Mrs. Zito’s computer w ith Post- I t notes. We pored over student art and photography, seeking to find the right complement to every piece of w riting. We w ould like to thank Mrs. Zito for her dedication to the Lit Mag during this process. Without the reminders, candy, and technological support she provided, the magaz ine w ould not have been possible. We thank Mr. Garvin as w ell for his help photographing your beautiful artw ork. Through this melding of art and w riting w e hope w e have captured the individual voices of our school. We proudly present to you the 3 6 th edition of Rings, Strings, and Other Things. Jaden Baum ’17, Noa Greenspan ’18, and Tori Walker ’18

Table of Contents “ U ltraviolet” - Laura Read ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 “ The Annexation of Summer Camp” - Jaden Baum ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 - 11 “ Brighten U p the Sky” - Kayla Wilson ’22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 “ The Gas Station Worker” - Katelyn Anderson ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 “ O de to Road Lines” - Tyler Windsor ’17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 “ Anticipation” - Sierra Burton ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 “ The Marriage of Sounds and Colors” - Julia Duarte ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 - 17 “ O f Pretz els and Pedophiles” - Jordan Franzman ’17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 “ I gnorance” - Ella Deans ’21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 1 “ Pushed O ut” - Danielle Doss ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2 - 2 3 “ O de to Failure” - Ryan Fulmer ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 4 “ a boy and his trucks in the front yard” - Warren Warsaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 6 “ O de to the Almond H orn” - Jaden Baum ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 8- 2 9 “ Mediterranean Sand” - Eylül Kumsal ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 1 “ Darkness in Perspective” - Anonymous. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 2 “ The Stoic’s Dow nfall” - Hallie Griffiths ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4 - 3 5 “ The Reason I Take Latin I I I ” - Nathan Vu ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 6 - 3 7 “ Trapped” - Karina Dick ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 9 “ Where I ’m From” - Patrick McCracken ’21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 0 “ A Calm River” - Colin Dowd ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 1 “ My Father’s Soul” - Daniel Moscoso ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2 “ Nothing Can Rhyme” - Jenna Archambeau ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 3 U ntitled- Ben Shine ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 4 - 4 5

“ Borrow ing My H eart” - Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 7 “ The Sea” - Christopher Asuncion ’21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 8 “ Fear” - Brammy Rajakumar ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 9- 5 1 “ Bloom” - Rice Webb ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 3 “ Lost” - Kai Wang ’22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 4 “ Tranq uility Ln. ” - Tori Walker ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 6 Excerpt from “ The Tenant” - Noa Greenspan ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 7- 5 8 “ Watching” - Eleanor Lilly ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 9 “ The Winds” - Eylül Kumsal ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 2 “ Why” - Olivia Danielson ’21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 6 “ The Middle of Now here, Pennsylvania, July 4 ” - Trish Hopkins . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 8 “ Tw o Distinct Pins” - Solomon Duane ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 - 71 “ The Giving Car” - Destin Rodgers ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 “ Floating I n” - Mary Alice Russell ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 “ Fate” - Avery Munn ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 - 77 “ Learning the Truth behind a Book’s Words” - Sahib Chandi ’20. . . . . . . 78- 79 “ Looking U p” - Leah Smith ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 - 81 “ This Thing We Call Life” - J.R. Herman ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 “ Found to Lost to Found” - Kerri Thornton ’20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 “ Threads of Society” - Julia Minder ’17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 - 87

Art I ndex Sierra Burton ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Tai Jeffers ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Reagan Richardson ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 - 11 Tai Jeffers ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 O liver Denk ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Ellie Whitmore ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 - 17 Tai Jeffers ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Reagan Richardson ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 0 H aley Y oung ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 5 Gabi Diskin ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 7 Gabi Diskin ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 8- 2 9 Ellie Whitmore ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 0 - 3 1 H aley Y oung ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 3 Gabi Diskin ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 6 - 3 7 Ellie Whitmore ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 8 Reagan Richardson ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 0 - 4 1 Tai Jeffers ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2 Grace Zoby ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 6 Ellie Whitmore ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 8- 4 9 Ellie Whitmore ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 0 - 5 1 Tori Walker ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 2 Tai Jeffers ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 5 Ben Richardson ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 6 - 5 7 Tori Walker ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 0 - 6 1 Gabi Diskin ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 2 - 6 3 Gabi Diskin ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 4 - 6 5

Gabi Diskin ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 7 Gabi Diskin ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 9 Tori Walker ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 - 73 Grace Zoby ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 - 75 Gabi Diskin ’18. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Ellie Whitmore. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Reagan Richardson ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Ben Richardson ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 - 85 Julia Minder ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86

Ultraviolet above in violetesque, another perspective of the world, written through the cracks of the city the views, the differences, a collective encompassing window heights, no pity for those below, swerving through the gritty he rides in yellows of the sunflower hiding under the mauve and the beryl serenity framed in stillness under the ivory tower the crowding and the city life in all its power in its own there goes that misty day of ours full circled alone the sky the day the sun the light the thrills still Laura Read â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

The Annexation of Summer Camp Sweating on the paint-stained wooden bench in the Arts & Crafts cabin painstakingly tracing over pencil with satisfyingly thick Sharpie I pause, pen poised, thinking about what lies next door. The prop shop. Annex. My project for the past week. Cluttered, chock full of useless debris and layers of dust and one small but active hornet’s nest. Meant to challenge me in new ways, this Mystery Project took me deeper inside this seemingly tiny cabin than I would have dreamed possible. I was seldom alone in this endeavor. My daily companion? A homesick waif, Talia, referred to by staff as a feral cat, who ate plain parmesan cheese with her fingers, threatened to cast spells on her enemies, and often proclaimed her love of “sharp things.” When Talia and I discovered a mother mouse and her two babies while re-organizing the rug collection, the mother fled with one mouselet protectively in her mouth. When the other baby was left seemingly for dead, Talia pensively remarked, “This won’t be the first time I’ve buried a mouse.” The mother later returned for her child, sparing me my first mouse burial. 10

I sifted through years of memory in that sauna of a cabin. Bags of crumpled foliage, stacks of set dressing, unwieldy axes, dust-coated telephones and one full-sized sarcophagus. With each day spent slaving as temperatures rose, giving my permanent colleagues, the hornets, a wide berth, I gained newfound respect for the props department. I sorted memorabilia from various time periods, reunited teacups with their long-lost saucers, spent an afternoon on the steps organizing every fake flower by color. And then I made a floor plan. I sketched out the rooms as best I could, marking important props with numbers. I created a key so that even the tiniest member of any future props crew wouldn’t be lost in the sea of scrap. I outlined it in Sharpie to make my work permanent, lasting, to leave a legacy for next summer’s eager prop crews. Within those two sealed laminate sheets lie a week’s worth of sweat, dust, glass, delegation, strategy, and success. Jaden Baum ’17

Brighten Up the Sky As I look upon the sky tonight, I see the moon shining bright. Bright as the sun, It shines. The moon, it runs, Across the sky. Every night it arises, And brightens up the black sky. As it comes, Stars align. One by one they start to appear, And lighten up the sky. They say the stars Are relatives watching over you, Letting you know you are not alone. The brightest star is my grandma Smiling over me. She brightens up the sky. Kayla Wilson â&#x20AC;&#x2122;22 12

The Gas Station Worker On dark silent nights When no headlights shine through the glass I know no one has come to pass Sometimes I’ll play cards unto myself Or if I feel ambitious I’ll wipe the dusty shelves I wait alone each dark silent night I wait for the birds to wake me up again I wait for the sunlight to slowly tiptoe in When it arrives I know it’s time To start the coffee and mop up the grime But until then I’ll sit Through this silent night at 2 am On my rusty metal stool I’ll stare out at the flickering street light At the neon sign Advertising gas at a dollar ninety nine Katelyn Anderson ’17

== Ode to Road Lines == Oh heavens above! What Angel hath bestowed Such heavenly blessings On this mortal earth? These immortal sentinels of the road Stand guard to protect Us mere mortal from the Devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Unholy doings. Your crisp white and yellow coats, Surely made from the holy robe of Gabriel, Serve as our wandering star, Just as a star guided The young shepherds to Jesus That night. Without the miracle of your creation. Certainly our world would be thrown into utter chaos, And each of us will plunge into the eternal abyss Of never ending traffic and crashes, Surely all of which Are the creations of Lucifer Himself! For your humble post, We thank you road lines.

Tyler Windsor â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

ANTICIPATION I raised my hand from where it hung somewhere between my pocket and the smooth, tiled kitchen counter. Silence fills the space not already filled by my deep breaths. I raise my hand just above my eyes where I reached for my perfectly etched, crystal glass; only to find it missing. My heart rate speeds to where I can’t breath. I panic. I shuffle around some more and stand as high on my toes as I can. Stemmed glasses are jostling around. I reach just further than I would have believed when the glass came into reach. God. My heart started to slow. Almost halting for a moment. This glass. This glass I thought. I was surprised the damned thing didn’t have my grip print around it at this point. bringing the glass down gently on the table giving a short break to the otherwise silent room... house... town that I live in. I turned and paced a step and a half before breaking the seal on the freezer. As I place my hand in the ice chest I hear a low toned shuffle of the cubes before rescuing the three chosen ones. cool, crisp, squares that slowly began to dissolve in the clutch of my hand. I drop them all together into that imperfectly perfect glass. Peering to the left as though I could be seen, I squint my aged eyes in the direction of the cabinet that holds my sadness, happiness, memories, fear, anxiety, family and friends. What I believe as my world is that of a bottle in a cabinet, approximately ten feet from the counter where I originally stood. It took more effort out of me than I would typically be willing but instead I twisted the cap and tossed it on the counter where it spun round and round clanking with each turn, before settling. I held the neck of the heavy bottle and popped it between my lips. Trying my best to wrap them tight enough around the lip to keep even a drop from running down my chin and onto the grey wires splitting from my face. The thick but thin solution fills my mouth, grazing my tongue before trickling down the back of my throat. There’s always a bit of a burn before warming the entirety of my chest and then spreading the heat to my toes and the tips of my bony, wrinkled fingers. Sierra Burton ’18

the marriage of sound and colors

I have heard sounds before. I am standing in the middle of the driveway; The tune of winds continuously slapping my face and the rain dripping down to kiss the pain away. I have seen color before. Many people assume that rain is clearbut as it slips away from my fingertips, and locks itself onto my hair, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but notice: clear with the lightest hint of blue. I have heard sounds before. I am now dancing, jumping from puddle to puddle: Splish splash, splish splash I have seen color before. After the tempestuous storm passed by, I see the perfect array of colors I had drawn earlier;

That is what I thought. Before I had arrived at the place Where the colors and sounds I have seen and heard Could not compare to what I had previously experienced. I could taste the vibrant color, And feel the music wash over me Like waves in a tsunami. No one could take me out of my trance. Distant laughter, the clapping of hands, and the chatter of the hundreds of thousands of people All fight for dominance in my ears. I am dizzy; I don’t know what to think anymore. Looking around, I am spellbound by all of the colors I didn’t know existed. But as the dancing started, the sounds and colors became two lovers Weaving in and out of each other, Creating the perfect balance. Yes, I have heard sounds before; I have seen color before.

julia duarte ’20

Of Pretzels and Pedophiles

It was strange seeing this many people come to the arena for a pedophile. Typically the arena only got this crowded for mass murderers or people found guilty of treason. It seemed that I wasn’t the only person who noticed this weird influx of arena attendance. A woman sitting two seats over had the same quizzical look as I did. Her eyes scanned the massive stretch of seats, looking for the one or two empty ones that peppered that packed stadium. “It’s strange seeing this many people here for a pedophile,” she said noticing me looking over at her. “I guess so.” I moved over to the seat next to her as it was empty. Over time, I had gained a certain affinity for these shows. Something seemed so fantastically gruesome seeing society’s greatest failures come face to face with their own internal melancholy. “I like coming here,” she said pulling out a half-smoked cigarette, “There’s something so fantastically gruesome seeing society’s greatest failures come face to face with their own internal melancholy.” Peculiar. “I had the same thoughts actually.” “Do you ever wonder why we have the same thoughts?” “Not usually. If everyone thinks the same thing way, things will be more efficient.” “Doesn’t it worry you that the soul crushing mediocrity of our puny existence defines our being?” “Every so often. It’s easy to distract myself with unimportant nonsense so I tend not to think of man’s neverending search for meaning.” I didn’t even realise that she was eating a salted pretzel. “Is it any good?” “Is what good?” “The pretzel.” “Yes.” Now I really wanted a salted pretzel. I considered going to the arena’s concession stands and buying a salted pretzel. I didn’t end up buying a salted pretzel. “I find watching pedophiles and eating salted pretzels very similar chores,” she said with her mouth full of salted pretzel. “Maybe the dryness and saltiness of the pretzel reminds you of the sickening actions of the pedophile.” “I think it’s just because I’m watching a pedophile and eating a salted pretzel at the same time.” We sat there silently for a while until the show came to an end. As we got up I heard the announcers say, “Thanks everyone for coming out to the arena tonight. It certainly is very strange to see this many people come to the arena for a pedophile.” On my way out of the arena everyone held a salted pretzel. I was hungry. Jordan Franzman ’17 18

|Ignorance| I sit alone. On the porch. And watch. Silent. Watching. I breathe in the cool air. Hah! Air. What a silly thing to believe in. For I cannot see air, And so it must not be there. They say the world is constantly moving, Dragging us with it. But I, Who sit, watching from my porch Do not see it move. And so It must not be moving, Who is to say that I am living? That I Am real? If the only proof I hold of this Is my beating heart? Who is to say my heart is real? I cannot see it. Ella Deans â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

Pushed Out Often sought out by people everywhere, But finding an identity for oneself is sometimes too hard to bear. The titles that come for similar mindsGoths, populars, nerds, dorks, weirdosReferring to these people as if they werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t one of a kind, And if they are not designated, they would be pushed aside. As times go on, everyone is harder to classify, but the classification is not a thing to pacify. South-born, but my Southern accent scorned By a Northern accent I was adorned. While knowing many, I still am not from their homes Living farther than they, I did not know how to act As I grew up in a neighborhood where 3 are the only children in fact. Out of the loop and nothing to say, I have to find my own way. Unique is good; unique is great, But fitting in is like trying to open two different gates: The one I see and the one imagined: The one with creaking gates and thorns that appear when touched; and the one covered with roses and open at the slightest touch when first examined. I prefer not to watch the critical teams that inhabit the school, not on the fields, the courts, the track, or in the pool. I love to watch the few plays, And I care to hang out with my friends more than I care to join the fray.

I wonder sometimes if people are supposed to be different minded. Are we all supposed to support each other, or cut one another down? Why do we look at some with a scowl or a frown? Does the pain of others amuse us; Or do we like making a fuss? Are we living by the joy of life; Or are we just living in strife? How do we judge others: by what they do or what they say? Who are our friends at the end of the day? Unique means only one, Whether it be in space, in the sea, or under the sun. Unique but alike means those of similar ideas, Not the same minds nor the same person. To those with the same goals, Or those lone square pegs that donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fit into the circular holes, Who have to find other outcast friends with whom to cajole, What about the hexagonal peg standing off to the side, Who has no one close to confide, Maybe she will go farther than all else, Because her uniqueness no one could quell, And though she may have traversed the world alone, For all her troubles her uniqueness can atone.

Danielle Doss â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 23

Ode to Failure You ruin days, Sending tears flowing, Like a heavy rain falling from the heavens most high. You cause delays. So well everything is going, Until you decide to stop by. You set dreams ablaze, Stripping them from our fragile, naĂŻve hands. You burn them, their black smoke polluting a splendid sky. But you make us stronger. You force us to face our fears, And keep from walking in too straight a line. You make us laugh a bit longer, At the perfection we thought was near, Compelling us to work harder when we thought it was our time to shine. I need you, heed you, and have always trusted your advice. For only a fool dismisses failure, And only a fool makes the same mistake twice. Ryan Fulmer â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

It is late spring, just ahead of the summer swelter, before heat banishes all inside. It is noon, and the sun pours light down on a boy and his trucks in the front yard. He is seated, politely rolling the trucks across the dirt and stones. These are construction trucks, shiny and new. And the boy, he makes sounds, construction sounds. Productive sounds. Masculine sounds. The sounds of American industry. But this is not enough for him. He rises with truck in hand, and pirouettes, spinning and twisting, gliding past trees, stirring up clouds of dirt with his feet. The truck is no longer a truck but a flying machine. And the sounds are no longer construction sounds, but the sounds of flight. The whir of rotors. A rocket ship whoosh. When lands a butterfly—a pale yellow moth, really—upon the boy’s arm. Its wings flap twice before bounding up in the air again. The truck falls, slowly, soundlessly, imperceptively, never touching ground. He leaps after the moth, laughing, embracing this futile chase. The moth climbs ever higher into the air, unaware of its hunter. And the boy, he too, begins to run into the air, legs churning, rising to the trees, then above them, laughing, legs kicking, then flapping. Soon, he is swimming in the air, ever higher until both boy and moth, awash in sunlight, vanish into sky, untethered at last.

Warren Warsaw 26

a boy and his trucks in the front yard

You possess A certain doughy heft, A heft that whispers Of decadence And indulgence. Your shape whispers of value Far more than Four Washingtons, Two green and Two gray.

Ode to the Almond Horn: Meditation from Morningside Heights’ Hungarian Pastry Shop

You represent the evolution of almond: From ground flour to distilled glaze To sliced, briefly blanched slivers which are Studded On your spine As jewels dot a tiara. Perhaps what makes you Truly special Is the atmosphere Of a dimly lit café With half-baked philosophies Adorning the beige bathroom walls And tiny tables facing An almost monstrous Gothic masterpiece Across the street. Maybe it helps To have adjacent Two well-coiffed, French-gabbing Women, with knotted Hermès scarves Rippling from their purses in the coffee-rimmed breeze Whose dulcet tones match their Pink shellacked nails and their white-boxed Rich torte.

Or is it the elderly yet animated Italian man at the next table, Clad in windbreaker and ballcap Who, While I sat writing this poem, Asked to borrow my pen, Called me mademoiselle, And resumed his gossip-laden conversation Only to chide me later For devoting too much time to my books, For I was too beautiful And life was too short. Maybe his use of the pen Imbued it with some magic Of a seasoned city-dweller, Who has spent many days, Weeks, Months, In search of the perfect pastry. It has given me renewed eloquence With which to sing your praises. For your tender chewy heart And lack of dry dusty crumble On this twinkling November noon Tastes of culture, Of melting-pot, Of verve.

Jaden Baum â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Mediterranean Sand

The sun lowers as I stand staring, The sand infuses into my skin I look down to see my feet hidden under that sand, And at that moment time stops. The sun finally sets behind the mountain The sand attaches to my soul, So I carry the sand with me. Alacati, Dalyan, Izmir, Aya Yorgi Each step releases a single grain Each grain marks my path And I plant my seeds in where my roots are old and buried I conserve that last grain. More than Norway preserves its nature. Care for it like a hyperactive child Waiting to let go of my hand, Only to leave it behind. So I say goodbye to the gate.

EylĂźl Kumsal â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Darkness in Perspective To the everyday people, Darkness is a part of life. To those afraid, Darkness is what light can fix. To light, Darkness is the devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s advocate. To the good, Darkness is the project. To the evil, darkness is a weapon. And to the blind, Darkness is reality. Darkness is Perspective. Anonymous

THE STOIC’S DOWNFALL Without warning, the man seated at the center of the bunch cut the intense silence of the game: “Straight flush! I guess it was about time I wrapped this one up, gentlemen.” His words, spoken with an easy conviction, lifted the tense fog that had formed above the table. “Shit, Mitchell. Why don’t you throw one for once-- maybe find it in the goodness of your heart to go easy on the less fortunate?” The man to his right quipped good-naturedly, punching the winner playfully on the shoulder. “We’ll play Yahtzee next time, boys, and one of you may actually have a chance.” The victor’s response was met with raucous laughter from the other men. The chorus of laughs ringed unsettlingly off-key, undercut by a tacit, festering resentment. The victor emptied his glass with a gulp and forcefully returned it to its resting place on the edge of the polished wood poker table. It landed with a satisfying thump, an audible display of dominance over his compatriots. He rubbed his thighs and stood, a hulking figure looming triumphantly over his spoils. He was a dark-haired man, sporting a heavy brow; the gleam in his eyes betrayed his stoic facade, providing the only human detail of an otherwise unreadable visage. He collected his winnings from the other players and amicably took his leave, sprouting some hastily-conjured excuses about a wife who was bound to be worried about his whereabouts. Save the bartender, the five of them were the only sign of life left in the desolate bar. An electric guitar whined over the speakers; he had heard this song a million times, but only ever at this one dive. Like the clientele, the playlist never changed.

He was unmarried, not even seeing anyone. The wife was a weak deception, which his associates bought without any further questioning. The men were apathetic towards the othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; personal lives. The only connection between the five strangers was their standing Thursday night poker game, which had been occurring with unbroken regularity for over nine years. The shadowy figures, leaning over the faded green table at the back of the musty bar, had become a fixture, an institution. As far back into his adult life as he could recall, this odd arrangement was the closest thing to friendship he had experienced. Having been a dealer at a somewhat respectable casino on the outskirts of one of any number of the identical gambling resort communities, he won almost every wee. The chill of the night air whipped his thoughts into a frenzy; without checking his watch he could guess the time had begun its melt into the early morning hours. He currently teetered the balance between the whirl of the late night-- the time at which the veil lifts and one becomes depersonalized, reality morphing into nothing more than a vivid dream-- and the inescapable awareness of his utter solitude tied inextricably to every sunrise. All at once he sensed the cold biting through his gloves, numbing his fingertips; the walk back to the motel was lengthy one, and it was winter. Although he had the money from prior engagements, he felt no desire to buy a car and rent an apartment. He loved holding money, letting his fingers slide over the raw potential in the bills, but did not feel any particular attraction to the superficial commitment associated with the ownership of material objects. His separation from objects, from people, gave him a sort of immortality. He who has left no noticeable imprint can never die, because it cannot be certain whether he was truly here to begin with. The poker game was the only earthly pleasure he allowed himself, and even that was carried out solely on a first-name basis: impersonal camaraderie and cheap beer bathed in the hum of loneliness pervading the surrounding bar. It was not death he feared, but loneliness. Hallie Griffiths â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17 35

The Reason I Take Latin III The sky, a light shade of yellow, white, and light blue Mixed in with a host of dark blue and black strokes Perhaps signaling the start of impending doom Or maybe the smoke will fill the sky too soon The ground, a mix of orange and red Like the canyons that snake across west Or maybe they are the plains, caught in a wildfire I imagine the situation must be quite dire

In the distance, a long line of trees A smudge of black on the horizon, not well defined Perhaps the trees are too far away to paint the details Or the fire has moved on, and my sight has failed Maybe the meaning of the painting is just as convoluted As my interpretation of what this person painted Nathan Vu â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

TRAPPED

Staring out at the tumultuous ocean, I yank my thin wetsuit, reeking of neoprene and salt, over my body. The forecasted five to six foot-hurricane swell looks mammoth, probably ten to twelve-feet in my jittery brain. The cloudy sky, wind-whipped beach, and violent seas accurately reflect my worries. A tacit nod speaking volumes signifies my readiness to Sarah. Sand crunches beneath my toes as the smell of salt consumes my nostrils. Cool water laps at my bare legs as we enter the choppy surf. Immediately, the current rips my feet from under me. Almost mechanically, I swing one arm in front of the other as I paddle out for the lineup. Waves crash. Buffeted by the irate seas, I face stinging punch after punch of Mother Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s robust hands. Almost an eternity later, I make it past the break as I sit up and stare at the lineup while catching my breath. I bob up and over the swells. Scanning the horizon for the perfect wave, my fingers nervously slide up my fiberglass board, considering every dent, ping, and shaving of wax. I gaze out past the lineup. I see it- a pristine, smooth giant looming on the horizon. My stomach churning, I take one last deep breath of salt and tropical wax and lie down. I paddle. As the giant nips at my heels and catches me, I stand up, my feet barely supporting my shaking body. I am consumed with an inexplicable rush of emotion, and I grin as I plummet down the face of a monster. The world swirls around me. I am enveloped by pure joy. Yet, as quickly as it came, my grin is vanquished as I smack a bump. My stomach drops to the sea floor, while I somersault head first over the nose of my fiberglass knife. One Mississippi. Without a chance to grab a breath, I am plunged into the deep, dark sea. Two Mississippi. Fear and panic addle my brain, further draining my oxygen supply. Three mississippi. Limbs flailing, I feel the wrath of the ocean being unleashed on my helpless being. Four Mississippi. My lungs burn as I attempt to fight the grasp of the giant. Five Mississippi. I relinquish my body to the beating of the ocean, attempting to minimize my breathing and heart rate. Six Mississippi. I sink to the ocean floor. Seven Mississippi. I clear my mind. Eight Mississippi. I feel the struggle end as the ocean gives me up. Nine Mississippi. Mustering my last strength, I push to the surface, gasping for air. My lungs are burning like a house ablaze, as I taste the life sustenance. I paddle back out. I believe in remaining calm. Karina Dick â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

Where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m From I am from the towering pine And the small sapling, I am from the calm lake And the roaring sea. I am from the debate but also the compromise. I am accustomed to being alone Yet I am naturally extroverted. I cherish the soft voice and the instructive bark. I am a mix of sweet and salty, The smell of the wind defines my travels While the smell of a home cooked meal envelops me. I strive to be myself and to please others. The balance is key to me, I am the towering pine. Patrick McCracken â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

A Calm River The sun sets on a calm river In the middle of spring, perhaps May, The temperature drops, people begin to shiver As the day begins to pass away, The sky is filled with many shades of red It spans across all the land, While many people prepare for bed The world looks beautiful and grand, Now the sky begins to darken And it is almost time for sleep, Dogs have now stopped their barkin And children start to count sheep, The sun has set, the day is gone, Everything is quiet, until the break of dawn.

Colin Dowd â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

My Father’s Soul I wait with bated breath, My hearts beat without rest, Will I hear about a death, Or will she just jest, My pitchfork stands its ground, Will I need it after I hear this information, May I become unbound, To this location, She clutches the letter, My breath catches in my throat, She exclaims “It’s for the better!” I shake in my coat, Is it really true, my brother, From the ash of London he has risen, Carrying jewel from my mother, “Tis but a watch but my father’s soul is locked in its prison. Daniel Moscoso ’19

Nothing Can Rhyme In the English language there is a word A word that simply cannot find a rhyme Not one little rhyme, it is so absurd How dare such a word commit such a crime I bet you’re wondering what this word is I’ll give you a hint, only a small one It’s a color in the rainbow, she says Red rhymes with bed, green rhymes with clean, they’re done Yellow rhymes with bellow, blue rhymes with dew And purple rhymes with hirple, I would think That leaves orange, I haven’t got a clue Nothing in the English language can link Orange is both a fruit and a color And a word that can’t rhyme with another. Jenna Archambeau ’19

irst Grade, it was already obvious I was overweight standing at 80 pounds. Second grade comes around and I have no motivation, my grades aren’t good and I’ve moved up to ninety pounds. Even at that grade level my report card was very bad compared to others. This lack continued and it gets so bad, by sixth grade I’m 150 and getting mostly Cs. Seventh I’m getting better grades but my weight is 180 and this is greatly affecting my health. Seventh to Eighth was when it was the worst, my grades still improving but my weight at this point was 220 and I was designated by my doctor as Medically obese in the 1st percentile of 14 year olds. Then over the summer from eighth to ninth something magical happened, when I came back to school I was barely recognized by my fellow classmates as over the summer I had never stopped working out and constantly eating less, and my weight was now 150-160. Over and over I am asked the question how I did it and what made me do it. My answer is always the same and I constantly see the same distorted face on all my classmates as I tell them. My answer to this ever-asked question is girls. Girls made me do it. To be exact it was one girl who will be named as Chloe. Over the October of 2015 I fell for Chloe, I mean really fell for her. So much it made me want her to like me back and I would do anything to do it. Of course every guy knows for a girl to like you, you have to be athletic and not fat at all. At least at my age where personality is not a big play in the scheme of things. This impression that girls would only like me if I lost weight positively affected me. As I tried it was incredibly hard to do so because of my large appetite and uncontrollable hunger almost to the point of an eating disorder. Also I could not run or workout for more than 20 seconds without feeling like I was about to die. At around November I had given up and decided I needed the girl to judge fully on personality, if I was ever to have any chance because the amount of weight I was thinking of losing was impossible. I had given up, that was it, I will live the rest of my school life as a loner with only my guy friends and maybe even in college this scene would remain the same. At this point I was only getting heavier and I had thought I was finished. I guess life had other plans. In December, I got the miracle I had been looking for. My parents surprised me with a trip to Snowmass, Colorado. As heavy as I was I still love skiing, it was my favorite thing to do. Also I realized I could maybe lose some weight and start to meet Chloe’s expectations. We arrive at the high altitude of Snowmass and the first thing that comes to me is amazing, I’m not hungry every second which was new to me. Also as the days started I was skiing all day, most of the day, not eating a lot. Skiing is a very intense workout and with the hungriness gone I was able to almost feel the weight I was losing.

This continued for about a week until we arrived back in Virginia. I wanted to weigh myself in and see how much I had lost. The jeans I had were already loose and I was very excited. I had lost a whopping 15 pounds going from 220 to 205. The feeling of joy I received from this immediately became an addiction and that, topped with me wanting to meet Chloe’s expectations, gave me the motivation I needed. This was my kickstarter to start the journey of a 70 pound weight loss. These pushes I received from Chloe, and the trip, gave me the motivation at first to start running. The weight started dropping as I slowly was able to run faster and more. From 205 to 200. When I broke 200, I knew I was going to be grinding and never get off the grind. 200-190-180, the weight was leaving. I was able to slowly run faster and further with less breaks. At 180 I decided running shouldn’t be all, so I started doing pushups and sit-ups every day to meet the expectations of not just Chloe but every girl. Slowly over the summer I was working out every day and even became a surfing counselor over it. By the start of school I was 160 and decided I wasn’t done my goal was 150 and I was gonna reach that. My decision to do this? I joined the cross country team and it got me where I wanted to be, even better than I expected as painful as it was. I hit 140 and then decided I was gonna put 10 pounds of muscle on, to even greater meet the expectations of girls. Every day after cross country I would hit the gym doing muscle building exercises. At around the end of the season I hit my goal but realized by that point running and working out had become not only my purpose to reach girls expectations but also an addiction. To this day I do track and every day I go to the gym and work on different muscle groups to meet these girls expectations. Soon it won’t be me trying to reach girls expectations but me and them trying to reach eachothers. These girls, especially Chloe’s expectations of a guy to not be fat and good-looking or so I believed pushed me and allowed me to lose weight, possibly saving my life. These desires of theirs for me to be muscled and lean also shapes me for the future to get stronger, faster, more defined muscles, smarter, and just better-looking guy. This assumption I always believed that Chloe wanted a guy that was muscled and good-looking is negative, but it has put a positive effect on me. And a lot of people encourage kids to judge on personality, to try to change this prejudice of kids pushing their bodies where they shouldn’t get for example anorexic. But my view is that, if the assumption allows a kid to lose 70 pounds saving his life, go for it. Ben Shine ’20

Borrowing

My Heart 46

Math class Full of boring geometry and pointless quizzes We learn the correlation between angles and lines The difference between parallel and perpendicular. Between him and I, I can’t help but find the signs Attempting to prove he’s not just a swindler He looks at me and I look away Pretending that I want my eyes to stray “Hey, can I borrow a pencil” he nonchalantly asks Knowing my answers already a ‘yes’ As he throws it back to me at the end of class Without a second thought or glance I wonder why he asks like such crabgrass I realize everyday this transaction is not just by chance He only wants me for my pencils

Anonymous 47

The Sea Some breathe the fresh air. A sea Scattered with islands Each with its own Unique community Lost souls Mine alike Drifting Through the waves Looking for shelter We wander To the islands Only for them to be Too small Too big Too calm Too violent Too this Too that Or simply a wall Blocking entry Still no paradise in sight

Though some of us Like I Swim into the destined others Causing sand to appear Beneath our feet While we keep Our arms open. Though some of us Choose to tread In the water But they are devoid Of the islands Moving farther away And these treaders Start to sink Under the waves Even with the multitude Of islands There will never be Enough vacancy For those still in the water And those Who have sunk Too deep Into the abyss Some drown in the sea. Christopher Asuncion â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21

Fear We have chosen to fear the unknownThe depths of our fellow peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hearts Whom do they see? What are they thinking? We look down at our feet in fear of meeting their eyes We pull away our hands and watch the bridges burn Divided, we cower in the shadows of the night The sky so dark and the moon so pale We fill this night with monsters Monsters in the light and monsters in the shadows Whose screams pierce the silence These beasts and demons Beating at their walls and threatening us And we turn away To find these enemies in each other

We refuse to look And see the colors of this faded tapestry All the rich and vivid colors that make us who we are All so beautiful, all so bright But fading now and fading fast Worn from the many years Pulled together tightly But fraying from wear and tear We set it all on fire And watch the ashes rain around us No colors left to love The crackle of the flames does nothing for the hate in our hearts It burns and burns Stronger and stronger The flames are fanned The monsters sit within us Tears drip onto the unraveled threads that remain

Weave the tapestry again Watch as the world is reborn Feel the threads connect us once more But we refuse and turn away Fear The only emotion Standing between us and understanding Embrace our colors Do not turn them into walls Take my hand Do not waver Look deep into my heart Do not simply glance at me and tell me who I am You are strong We are strong Do not let the threads break Do not leave me holding the pieces Brammy Rajakumar â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19 51

<< Bloom >> Take seed Add soil, Water, And sun Bury it all And wait for flowers to come One thing Don’t forget There’s reason to fret Rocks mustn’t be close to your baby They scream and shout Spewing out the mouth Lies all about Your baby The hatred (you should presume) Won’t let your baby bloom The way that a child should The words the rocks say Make the seed quiver away And may force its opinion to sway Coddle your child Hold it for a while For if you let it go Its experience might show And turn it into something new You wouldn’t let a baby grow Around hatred you know So don’t you let that seed sow around rocks Rice Webb ’17 53

Lost The smell of Hamburgers On a grill. The sound of Little kids Chasing each Other, whooping Like they are Mimicking Firetrucks. The taste of Refreshing Watermelon, The sweet juice Dribbling Down my chin. Lying down On my old Brown futon, I was remembering What was lost. Kai Wang â&#x20AC;&#x2122;22

TRANQUILITY LN.

Each morning I wake from squeals and sharp cries Of ones with sticky fingers holding pastel chalk, painting pavement mosaics. They crouch on the hot, sparkling ground, holding their dripping juice boxes Containing only 5% of the real fruit they need. Usually once one shakes the shutters and steps beyond the front door The others attract like magnets, ready to conquer the world. The U-shaped street plastered with vivid color, Each bright home is another one on the palette, Standing three stories high and catching the sun in its hands. They fill with barks and meows and hellos, Who dance to the sound of a buzzing melody Coming from the nearby brewery. Waxy, citrus-scented candles burn to keep the mosquitos flying And the scent travels its way to the water even faster than it takes to walk. For us, the 7 minutes it takes is time well-spent; For us, Time doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t age. Only does the mango salsa and salty tortilla chips we snack on And Dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite playlists. The damp, sudsy grass turns into muddy puddles As we give the family Volvo a bath before dark. Shivering, we light a fire and melt into one constellation Before we must part into individual stars again. Tori Walker â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18

Excerpt from

“The Tenant” Susan had lived alone for fifteen or so years when she decided to take in a tenant. A series of circumstances had left her, the eldest sister, in her narrow box of a childhood home in Rego Park. For all the time that had passed, though, she thought that she had done well preserving it. It had more or less its original coat of white paint and the very same clanging brown door. She even kept the pink towels, the faded floral sheets, and the pillows from the old days when they had first come to New York. She was certain that she would never leave. On one Thursday morning, Susan had peered at the bulletin board in the Trade Fair supermarket. Her eyes had stopped at the sight of a red and black flyer. Man, said the flyer, in mid-thirties. Looking for a room to rent in Queens for a reasonable price. There were ten tearable phone numbers at the bottom of the sheet. The area code marked him as an outsider. Susan hesitated at the board. For reasons that were unclear to her, she placed one palm on the flyer, carefully ripped one of the numbers off, and pushed it into the pocket of her baggy slacks. She didn’t think much of it until the following night. Each Friday evening, Susan and her sister had scheduled time to talk. She sat with her back aching at the dining room table. That man’s number from yesterday lay delicately before her. Glancing onto the white slip of paper, she picked up the telephone and dialed Rachel’s number. “Hi,” came Rachel’s voice after a few rings. The loud, American accent crackled in Susan’s ear. “How are you?” “I’m okay,” said Susan. “And you?” “Just busy.” She sighed through the phone. “And stressed…” Rachel informed her sister of what had happened in the past week. The new teacher her boss had hired was no good, no good at all. She had been forced to step in herself when parents called her up complaining. Madeleine was acting in the school play, Rachel said, and it was Sammy’s last year of high school, of course. “That’s a big deal,” said Susan. “Next year he’ll be off to college.” “I know!” said Rachel. “It’s crazy.” All these were topics that the two had broached before on their Friday night chats. There were familiar beats in the conversation. It would inevitably follow that after the kids, they’d begin to talk about the weather down south. Oh, it’d been an unusually warm winter this year, Rachel would say. Nearly Chanukkah and seventy-five degrees out! Then she might ask about Susan’s work and her health. Slowly, the conversation would come to a mutually understood death at the eighteen minute mark, and the phone would click off, leaving her in the empty dining room. 58

Tonight, however, Susan couldn’t focus. Her eyes kept flickering back to that little piece of paper. “I’m thinking of taking in a lodger,” she said. “What?” said Rachel. “Yes… I saw a notice for it yesterday at work. He would rent a room in the house.” Susan curled her knobby fingers tighter around the neck of the phone. A pause. “I think that’s a fantastic idea.” “You do?” “Yes… I mean, well… you’d have to clean the house for sure.” Susan straightened up in her chair, her lips twitching slightly. Who was Rachel to make a judgement, after the sacrifices she had made? “Of course I’ll clean it. I was just thinking it could be a good way to make money.” “And meet someone new.” Susan didn’t say anything to that. Their conversation was now charged with a new energy on Rachel’s part. They discussed the nitty-gritty of the situation: Who was this man? How much would she ask for? Neither knew the answers, but the matter was settled that tomorrow Susan would call him. When they finally got off the line, Rachel was pleased. Maybe having a young stranger in the house would break her sister’s commitment to protecting the dirty home like a shrine over the years.

Noa Greenspan ’18 59

Watching She stands there, watching. Her eyes see mothers, a number as plentiful as the wrinkles in their faces. Her heart has broken countless times. She stood a witness to their grueling efforts on the open plains as the moon chased the sun in an endless cycle She saw them be told to be seen and not heard. She saw them be heard in Seneca Falls. She saw them suffer for suffrage. She stands there, watching. Watching the forward march. Her heart becomes whole once again. Eleanor Lilly ’18 (inspired by Langston Hughes’s “The Negro Speaks of Rivers”)

The Winds Lodos tears through the streets of home, The strong breeze lifts me from the ground Swings me through the Golden Horn. These lukewarm cities get swept by the winds, And I face the harsh blows of Helm For the first time with upsetting truth Five coats hide my skin from Dagmar, But leave no shield for my cracked lips and crimson cheeks. From the ruins rises Bora, Spreads across the despair and poverty. Snugs into my heart, Rapidly travels through my blood. EylĂźl Kumsal â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Why Grandma’s waiting for me to come. Sitting in her rocking chair, Fading in and out, while she looks out at her cherry blossom tree. She can’t wait for me to arrive, so we can talk about things, She was waiting for me, all her life. I didn’t talk to her very much, and when I did, It wasn’t for very long. And now when I look back, why didn’t I talk to her more and be more grateful, for all the things she had done. Olivia Danielson ’21

The Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania, July 4

2:27 am. I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. It was officially July 4th. The earlier booms long gone, I patted Jax on the head before going downstairs. As I climbed the awkward steps back to the second floor, I thought how odd it was that Jax did not thump his tail or lift his head when I tiptoed by him. By nature, he was awake when I was awake. Poor We sat on the dock with our legs swingpup. He must be so tired from the ing, and it began. It started slowly, with worry. I approached where he was a few sparkles, and then suddenly the lying now at the foot of the bed, to night sky exploded--weeping willows, give him a bit more reassurance and multiple blasts with hearts and hapa bit more love, to help him through py faces, giant star-shaped illuminathe night. tions--yellow, white, red, blue, green-pounding the night sky again and again His breathing was labored. His legs over the small lake. Over the oohs and were stiff. His eyes seemed distant. ahhs of surrounding friends and family, Something was wrong--very wrong. I looked towards the cottage across the Fear filled my heart. I screamed to street with Jax in mind as the fireworks Dan. Jax was dying. Our sweet, lovcontinued, hoping the air-conditioning, ing, happy dog was dying. The tears fans, and TV were loud enough to cover streamed down my face. Dan jumped all the noise. Jax hates loud noises, out of bed. He grabbed his phone and his fear of them has grown over to find help, some kind of help, any the course of his 8 Â˝ years. Thunder, kind of help. We would find none. fireworks, loud planes, helicopters, even We were in the middle of nowhere, machine-gun fire from Dam Neck-Pennsylvania. The breaths were they all spook him. Poor pup. After the worse--raspier, huskier, more painlast sparkle faded from the sky, handful. I lifted Jaxâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head onto my lap in-hand, Dan and I walked across the as we tried to find an emergency vet. street. There was none. There was only us. Our 13 year-old dog Spencer was sound Dan and I continued to pet Jax, to asleep in the middle of the living room; reassure him, to hold him, to love Jax, however, was huddled in the corner him. Finally, we lay down next to of the kitchen. While he was not shakhim and told him that Spencer loved ing, he was certainly not happy. Calling him and that we loved him, but it to him to snuggle upstairs, we climbed was time for him to go. It was time to the steps, and he curled up as close to let go. He took his last breath with us the side of the bed as he could. A few by his side, with our love in his heart more quakes, a few more explosions, and his love in ours. I believe there and the celebrations finally came to a are times when we have to let go. I close. believe in letting go. Trish Hopkins

Two Distinct Pins I got a pin for Christmas, It came in a little box. Papa smiled as I opened it, “Wear it with pride, my boy.” I got a pin for Christmas, It came in a little box. Father smiled as I opened it, “Wear it with pride, my boy.” Examining the pin, I run my finger over the symbol. “Jude?” It helps strangers know who we are, Papa says.

As Papa and I head to the market, I wear my pin with pride. On the way, my father stiffens, And pulls me off the sidewalk. As Father and I head to the store, I wear my pin with pride. A man and his son jump to the side, Both wearing yellow stars. I put my head down, just like Papa, But catch a glimpse of another pin, A black symbol, on a white circle. I keep my eyes straight, Just like Father, But catch a glimpse of a yellow star, Pinned to each of their shirts. I don’t see anything different about them, But they treat us like we’re lower. If only I knew how much hate, Those symbols held within them.

Examining the pin, I look at my father with curiosity. “It is the sign of the future, son.” I put it down and continue to open my gifts. I don’t see anything different about them, I sit at the fireplace, They treat us like we’re higher. As mother scans the Torah, But the only difference I see, While my eyes slide down, Is the pins on our shirts. Pushing for sleep. I sit at the fireplace, Arranging toy soldiers, As father pins a flag on the wall, Displaying the same symbol on my pin.

As they walk on, I can’t help but wonder, How a simple little pin, Has distinguished who we are.

Here, I stand, A Jude with a pin. In a line no man should have to wait in.

As we walk on, I can’t help but wonder, How a simple little pin, Has distinguished who we are.

Here, I stand, A soldier with an armband. Forcing along a line no man should have to wait in.

The next day, Papa wakes me up suddenly, “We have to go immediately,” I grab my clothes, And stuff them into my bag.

I look around one last time, And see that boy from years ago, With his armband, If only he knew the hate he dressed himself with.

The next day, Father wakes me up suddenly, I look at the line, “It’s time for your first day.” And see that boy from years ago, He brings down my new uniform, With his yellow pin, For me to dress myself with hate. If only he knew the oppression he dressed himself with. On the way out the door, A soldier stops us. Two completely different pins, My mother pleads with the man, Two completely different lives. Asking for mercy. I leave the house, wearing my uniform, As my parents fight behind me. She told me what was happening is wrong, To not go to “school”. The soldier didn’t listen. I didn’t listen.

Solomon Duane ’19 71

THE GIVING CAR The car sits rusting in the field, accompanied only by the empty, lifeless metal shells surrounding it. As it waits, it is reminded of the sacrifices it made, the miles it travelled. the weather it experienced, inspections it endured, all while keeping its owner safe. And yet, it ended up like all others, abandoned, alone, and broken. Destin Rodgers â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19 72

Floating In I am lifted into the air With short tugs That make my heart lurch upwards. I stare into a black curtain, With my legs crossed at the ankles Arching to step Onto the paneled stage floor. Soon my music starts and I am blinded By a bright light Hued with the pink of my larger than life Ball Gown which sticks To the taped metal seat. I am cascaded down Like Mary Poppins On a stairwell, My pointed feet brush the ground And I am soon stepping out Asking, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” My fear floats Into the air With the bubble that brought them

Mary Alice Russell ’18

E T FA

Think: If my mother Hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ever met my father And fallen in love,

Then I wouldn’t be here, And my sister wouldn’t be here, And neither would my brother.

But they did meet, And then got married And had us.

Maybe my mother would be living in Paris, Or Milan, Or Africa.

And now, We live in Virginia, And we go to Norfolk Academy, And I play volleyball And my brother plays baseball And my sister plays field hockey.

Maybe she would be an astronaut, Or a professional elephant trainer, Or maybe she would work on Wall Street. She could be married to another man, Living somewhere that isn’t here, With a family and a life and different kids. But she isn’t. Think: If my father Hadn’t ever met my mother And fallen in love,

And we wouldn’t be here if my parents hadn’t met. So it’s almost as if Everything Is Meant To Be.

Then maybe my father would be living in Dubai, Or Germany, Or Antarctica. Maybe he would be an engineer, Or an actor, Or a professional trapeze artist. He could be married to another woman, Living somewhere that isn’t here, With a family and a life and different kids. But he isn’t. The odds that my parents could have never met

Avery Munn ’20 77

Learning the Truth behind a Book’s Words To me three years ago, books were just that: books. I believed them simply to be what they were to my eyes- just binds of papers containing many words and sentences and paragraphs. Although I recognized reading as a healthy habit, I found the task arduous and boring. I could not manage to read through three pages without wandering off while continuing to play the words in my brain mindlessly. Books and I were not in accord. It happened that on a particular day three years ago, I learned to look beyond how my eyes perceived all those books, those really dull, boring books. I was sitting on the couch with my Grandpa who was sitting nearby. Placing my feet on the coffee table, I felt my bare feet lay on top of a paperback book which I knew to be a book through its square feel and curving cover. The book was Shakespeare’s A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream and even a masterpiece of William Shakespeare did not elude my ignorant opinions of literature. I thought nothing of this action. Looking up, I saw his face red with rage. Obviously, he saw things differently. I could tell he was furious, because his irate face contradicted his kind and benign personality. Immediately, I knew that I had done something terribly wrong that sparked this unfamiliar fury. My wrongdoing evaded me. What was wrong with sitting quietly on a couch with your feet up? Speaking no English, my Grandpa began a tirade in his native tongue, Punjabi. He told me to remove my feet from the book at once. I was unresponsive. Rising from the seat, he snatched the book from under my bare feet. I just stared. He sat next to me and asked if I had any sense at all in my mind. I said nothing. My obliviousness, and more importantly, my ignorance toward literature were given insight when he went on to explain that books are gifts of knowledge and must be treated with a concomitant amount of honor. In my Indian culture, the feet are considered dirty and impure and by placing my feet on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I committed a degrading act.

He then told me to do something that dumbfounded me greatly. He told me to kiss the book and apologize to the book. I looked at him with utter confusion, and I said and did nothing. Persisting, he stuck the book in front of my face. His demands were not met. He was becoming angrier, and since I was taught never to disobey an elder, I did as he pleaded. My lips touched the cover of the book and I verbalized an apology. At that very moment, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which I categorized as “just another book,” seemed like a person. We were equals. My Grandpa’s lesson had an effect on my views of books. He revealed to me a new perspective. Through his lesson, I figured that literature is a gift that teaches not just a story, opinion, or information but provides something in a realistic context. Whether it portrays insight, action, mystery, drama, or comedy, literature manifests itself as mankind’s strengths, weaknesses, powers, and struggles. Books provide knowledge, insight, and a good laugh when the world does not and brings about the best of whoever ruffles through its pages. They are the ultimate source of all the strength and well being in the world. People may come and go, but I can say this for certain: a book is always on the shelf.

Sahib Chandi ’20 79

Looking Up I roll out coats on walls With deliberate ease, But the ceiling is what troubles me. It drips on my glasses, And my hair, And my clothes. Distracted, I ruin previous coats with my own. But what troubles me the most about the ceiling is my neck. To see my work I strain But I only see painted rain. And quicker than my vision blurs, My neck cries in protest, Because I am not used to looking up so vigilantly.

I used to walk through the day As a passerby, My head in my phone, Or a friend at my side. I minded my own business And left others to theirs. But after a while, I got a crick in my neck Not only from keeping my head down too long, But also from ignoring what was going on. So, I took a long look around. And the things I see now haunt me. Anger, Hatred, Fear, And death. They seem to be everywhere, Even in our trusted friends. The world is not as I saw to be. Good still exists, This I know, But I will not be blinded. So, Mark my words, Never again will I lower my gaze. Though, My neck still aches, Because I am not used to looking up so vigilantly.

Leah Smith â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20 81

This Thing We Call Life Wake up each morning to a new day, only to discover it’s work, not play. Go to sleep to a new night, only to prepare for the next day’s fight. Day after day, month after month, year after year, and all to show is desire and fear. Rich or poor, strong or weak, beauty or the beast, none of this matters in life’s eternal feast! Witnessing life’s cruelty is rough. Inoculation makes you tough. While life mocks, jokes, and spews hate, combat it, by getting wiser, happier, and feeling great! When you achieve your ultimate goals though strife, the feeling of accomplishment will cut through this thing called life.

J.R. Herman ’20 82

Found to Lost to Found (Ekphrasis on Photo of Graduates on the Beach) Sand nestled between toes, Waves gently crashing. Cleansing past and future woes, With serene splashing. One, a quirky scientist; Another, astute president. The next a librarian, the quietest; His friend, a pilot, their home he’ll represent. After departing, never again will they meet; Separate hopes, separate dreams. Upon passing on Main Street, Complete strangers, it would seem. And yet, bound by one common ground: When lost, in each other they’ll always be found. Kerri Thornton ’20

Threads of Society Donning our favorite dress It is pretty Most importantly We want to feel beautiful If only it was that simple We do not pick the our clothing Because we want to But because we are told By newspaper articles in the fashion section Or by starving models in the magazines We are told That it’s the way it should be Yet, Deep down we distinguish the truth The only we Can escape from the grips of ourselves We crave the feeling of being wanted Thus we look and dress a certain way The feeling of belonging Feels like love, A love like no other We can obtain it by buying shiny things That we see in the periodicals We can’t stop It consumes until it becomes passion We are trapped Forever No escaping The vicious cycle with no way out Mindlessly adding pashminas and blouses to our shopping cart Entering our credit card numbers And pressing checkout Feelings that should make us squirm and cringe Have become comfortable Safe We feel safe when we shouldn’t

We suppose we are unique Independent Free thinkers Yet we are not They are thinking for us Society has chosen Who we are What we do The choices that we make We think we are in control Yet we don’t control anything Their words reach out and grab us Dragging our lifeless body into the depths of despair We chose to forget this Don’t forget this… Telling ourselves We are the captains of our fate Yet, humankind is everywhere No escaping Everywhere we turn From TV to Newspaper Telling us how to live How to dress You have to be perfect You have to look like that model on the magazine You have to buy the right clothes You have to act like a lady Sitting with legs crossed on a crushed velvet chair People on the streets will say how lovely she is To look at. We listen I listen You listen But listen… Because we haven’t been taught anything different We think we love outfits because it makes us feel beautiful When we look at ourselves in the mirror It’s truly because society tells us So we think we are We are what they say we are Which is nothing at all

Julia Minder ’17 87

Norfolk Academy

1585 Wesleyan Drive Norfolk, VA 23502 757-461-6236 www.norfolkacademy.org