Stray Shot 2015

Stray Shot 2015

STRAY SHOT 2015 Editors: Arkadiy Ayvazyan, Virginia Dodenhoff, Kenny Fleming, Jake Kantor, Tom Zeshen Liu, Todd Moosey, Luke Ocasio, Charles-Alexandre Rioux, Maddie Senich, Charlie Shulman Faculty Advisor: Mr. Benson

The Gunnery Washington, Connecticut

CONTENTS Cover illustration by Alyssa Cooke Poem by Dana Ross................................................................................................ 1 Poem by Angela Vedeneva, translated by Dana Ross............................................... 2 Austin by Emily Williams ........................................................................................ 3 Poem by Ele Schickler ............................................................................................ 4 Poems by Skylar Cluett .......................................................................................... 5 The Gunnery’s Finest Cuisine by Pat Mullen ........................................................ 7 Ode to Lacrosse Stick by Kenny Fleming............................................................... 9 Mom’s Dumplings by Victor Yang .......................................................................... 10 My Favorite and Memorable Steak by Min Hyeong Cho ........................................ 12 Window by Miranda Yang ....................................................................................... 13 The Truth of Flight by Giordan Maggi ................................................................... 14 Poem by Matt LoPresti............................................................................................ 15 Poem by Pat Mullen ............................................................................................... 16 White Bird Mask (detail) by Lorrey Dai ..................................................................... 17 Poems by Henry Pratt............................................................................................. 18 Poem by Gabby Bruck............................................................................................ 20 Photo by Miranda Levin ........................................................................................... 21 Poems by Kayla Walewski....................................................................................... 22 Leaf by Miranda Yang ............................................................................................. 24 Poem by Bei Dao, translated by Tom Zeshen Liu .................................................... 25 Body Language by Chloe Coppola .......................................................................... 26 Photo by Ashley Judson .......................................................................................... 28 Kicks by Charlie Shulman...................................................................................... 29 Photo by Ashley Judson .......................................................................................... 31 Rocker by Ashley Judson ....................................................................................... 32 Poems by Charles-Alexandre Rioux ........................................................................ 34 Ode to Hockey by Jake Kantor .............................................................................. 37 Prose/poems by Arkadiy Ayvazyan......................................................................... 38 Photo by Miranda Levin ........................................................................................... 40 Poem by Maddie Senich ......................................................................................... 42

Nothingness by Eva Jones ..................................................................................... 43 Ode to the Orange by Todd Moosey ....................................................................... 44 Three poems by Laura-Delight van Tartwijk........................................................... 45 Your Hands by Laura-Delight van Tartwijk .............................................................. 47 Girls’ Boarding School excerpt from Gunn Scholar essay by Jessica Qi Xu ............. 51 Poem by Luke Ocasio ............................................................................................. 56 Three poems by Virginia Dodenhoff ........................................................................ 57

The editors thank Mrs. Daylor, Mr. Richards, Mrs. Theobald, and Mr. Martin for assisting us in this endeavor. For back issues of Stray Shot, go to Students and then the Student Publications area of The Gunnery website.!

Poem by Dana Ross I changed and I’m afraid I changed and I am feared Afraid of that sick look Of sir, Miranda, Ean That fear makes me feel undone And I am too, of course, uncalm I changed a lot, I know that I won’t admit to be a pet A pet of evil nature deeds I haven’t changed I’ll try to flee There is a no chance for mine glee We never know when we change But I have changed Is that for wrong?

I wish I knew it was so wrong How can the change be so wrong That’s not my fault, that’s not what I want I liked myself, I like my thoughts I wish I knew what I did want Today I woke up and saw The person in the glass is me But is that me – what I saw Or is it the evil side of me I don’t want to see the evil me I am glad with me, my train of thoughts I am drunk and smoking, at my ease But is it me – no, it is not

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Poem by Angela Vedeneva, translated from the Russian by Dana Ross All people have a breaking point When they feel weight on their heart.

They think they'll keep falling down forever, And life seems like a black spot too.

All people have a ray of hope, though, And the closest and dearest to you Will always save you from the abyss of failure.

They'll stay and say, "I'm with you."

*** У каждого из нас есть точка срыва, Когда становится на сердце тяжело, Когда нам кажется, что падаем с обрыва, И жизнь становится, как черное пятно... У каждого из нас есть луч надежду, И кто-то очень близкий и родной Не даст тебе упасть в пучину бездны, И скажет: "Ты не бойся, я с тобой!"

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Poem by Ele Schickler Dreams, bright like the sun, Yet in this world of being divided Where violence is never subsided Those dreams are like a snowflake in a roaring fire Burned away in an instant, against all desires Dreams run deep Like the roots of a tree The power within is hidden by thee A hope holds it up And perseverance never lets up Dreams can be shattered By the color of one’s skin But the flame is always burning from the mind within In one instant moment When life may seem frozen The flame will gasp and sputter And it may flutter Some people may cry Some people may wish there life goodbye Because the dream they always had Was like the ones of loved ones in the past And then at last When the final breath is taken And the last word is spoken That very last gasp Will put the flame out at last The smoke will curl itself up And release itself into the air While the ones who loved that dream most Will look back on those years The laughing and joy Ringing in their ears

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Poems by Skylar Cluett #1 falling round edges i could fall, so easily shadowed glances forgetful faces the late nights, just reflections promises that could never be #2 Drowning Tell me where it broke.

Because lost in this madness i swearyou and i must be somewhere.

Did i fall from where we were.

Oceans of sky high wondersclouds of uncertainty moving too fast.

Can i slowly loose my breath?

Mind gone before matterill find you on the unseen bottom of this blue water.

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#3 jealousy my eyes they change from blue to green with jealousy like the wind my soul howls inside of me words begging to break free something crazy like a uneven sea every word you said just a seed of a flower that would never be.

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The Gunnery's Finest Cuisine by Patrick Mullen

The daily student notices email is sent out at 11:35 AM when the lunch menu is revealed to the whole school. Word spreads quickly, and students begin begging their teachers to be let out just a few measly minutes to get a better place in the endless line. When the clock strikes 12:15, students, who have already packed their backpacks, rush to the door. The walkway to the dining hall churns in turmoil as students want to get to the front of the line faster than their classmates. The warm scent delighting their nostrils leads students along the walkway. This smell is the smell of chef d'oeuvre of the Gunnery dining hall staff, chicken nuggets.

Once I enter the open doors of the dining hall, I am amazed at the chaos I witness. The line for the golden chicken delicacies stretches around past the sauce station and reaches the toaster. As I hop in line behind a few of my friends the wait is killing me. My mouth waters while I think of the mouthfuls of heaven that are a few very long minutes away. After what feels like an eternity, I finally reach the journey's end. Even before the twelve perfect pieces of pleasure are pitched on to my plate, I know my troubles are far from over. I have to fend off the greedy fingers of my classmates who are attacking my plate like a pack of hungry wolves. After I make it to the sauce station with eleven of my twelve treasures remaining, I'm a faced with the toughest choice of my life.

I'm trying to decide among the sweet and tangy taste of honey mustard, the rich, smoky flavor of barbecue sauce, and classic tomato ketchup. A bead of sweat dribbles down my intensely furrowed brow while I am ultimately forced to make a decision by the line forming behind me like an angry mob, and I instinctively choose the ketchup. I measure out my custom made drink of nine parts pink lemonade and one part grape juice, and I hurry towards my table to devour my lunch.

As I look around my table before sitting down, I can gauge how far along they are in their own personal chicken nugget adventure. There are the second platers, who still haven't felt the punch in the gut delivered by these cruel, yet delicious, treats. Then there are the second-and-a-half platers who are midway through experiencing the harrowing knot being tied in their intestines.

Finally, there are the third platers, who after eating just two chicken nuggets off their full plate, ask to be excused to relieve themselves in bathrooms down the hall. I shake off these images, dip my first nugget in the vermillion vicious sauce, and raise the chunk of chicken to my mouth. After the first piece passes my lips, my mouth is filled with the tangy, sweet, and saltiness that the nugget-ketchup combination creates. They slide past my palate with nary a 7 Â

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ripple. The next ten nuggets are a blur, and I stand up and suppress the torrid feeling heart -burn with my icy drink. The diminished line allows me to reach my destination of plate two at a record speed. This time I decide to add a handful of curly fries to go with the nuggets. I opt to accompany the fries with some zesty hot sauce. I squirt it out, and it makes a squish noise as the hot sauce meets the plate. Replenishing my beverage, I return to the table where only a few survivors remain. Many of my remaining comrades are hunched over, their faces filled with pain and regret. Determined to fulfill my chicken nugget needs, I wolf down my next twelve, but I decide to take my time on the fries. Every time I lift the hot-sauce drenched curly fry to my nose, my nostrils are greeted with the potent piquancy of raw fire. The drop of hot sauce that hits my chapped upper lip burns like napalm. I decide to call it a day and take my plates and cups back to the dish drop-off zone and grumble out a "thank you" before returning to the dining hall to scarf down some cookies. As I walk out of the dining hall with a slight feeling of accomplishment and an overwhelming feeling of sickness, I feel that the worst is yet to come.

After the academic day I decide to lie down for a quick nap. Although the 30 minute cat-nap revitalizes me, when I check my phone I am stunned to read 3:35 on the clock. Already five minutes late to practice, I begin to sprint out the door. My worst fears are confirmed when I enter the athletic center and hear Mr. Theobald's gruff voice bark out "Mullins, hit the stairs." As I climb the stairs I feel sicker and sicker with each step. I am overwhelmed with many feelings during this ordeal, but regret is not one of them.

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Ode to Lacrosse Stick by Kenny Fleming

The stick, Metal base that holds a stiff plastic head, Rope tied together and expanded to create the perfect pocket, Unlike any other sport the strings must be perfect, The ball must release from the pocket straight, every time, If one thing is off center the ball will not adhere to its desired location, Then, you are screwed.

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Mom’s Dumplings by Victor Yang

Once a cook was asked what the best dish was in his opinion, and with no hesitation he replied: “The best dish is what mother cooks.” I couldn’t understand this when I first read it, but now being away from my parents, I realize how much I miss the food my mother makes.

The spring festival has just passed. This is the first spring festival that I have spent without my parents. On New Year’s Eve, I couldn’t help but remember the dumplings my mother makes. On this day, kids will go back home from wherever they work and unite with their families. Normally, we chat, play poker games, and gather around the television on which the New Year’s Gala is playing. By midnight, all members of the family go to the kitchen and make dumplings. Several types of fillings are already well prepared by mom, including shrimp, pork and veggie. I may go make the wrappers or learn how to put the filling in the wrapper and make it good-looking. I am not as experienced as mom, but I can make dumplings as well. The whole family works together in the kitchen, embodying the happiness of family reunion. It is not long before the dumplings are served.

Under the ivory dumpling skin lies the plump, succulent filling. As usual, I can’t resist the temptation to devour a delicate dumpling even though it is super hot. It is not easy to hold the smooth dumpling with chopsticks, and I don’t want to break the dumpling and let the broth come out. It is such a torment that you have to eat slowly while the awesome delicacies are placed right in the front, luring you to taste them. Finally, a fat dumpling is crammed in my mouth. I can feel the smoothness and the warmth from the dumpling. A little bite on the dumpling leads to the burst of the skin, and delicious broth fills my mouth – it’s a pork one.

What make the meal more interesting are the coins we hide in the dumpling fillings. Mom always prepares a few clean coins and mixes them in the filling. Whoever gets the coin in the dumpling is said to be lucky in the next year. It is impossible to tell simply by judging the appearance of the dumpling, but I always enjoy trying to discern the tiniest differences. I can’t describe the joyfulness when I feel hard metal touching my teeth.

But this year, there is no way I can go back there to enjoy the family dinner. I can only taste mother’s dumplings in my memory. I have never wished so badly to go home and celebrate the spring festival with my family. I can never describe the bitterness I feel when I realize that I might not be able to celebrate the spring festival for quite a few years. It will be a lot different when I 10

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go back home for spring festival next time. I might have already finished my college by then. The spring festival in my memory is gone. I can only cherish it in my memories.

Mom, I want to make the dumplings again with you. I want you to teach me how to make them good-looking. I want to hear the clatter of a coin touching my teeth. I want to taste your dumplings one more time, slowly.

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My Favorite and Memorable Steak by Min Hyeong Cho A soft and glossy chunk of meat about the size of my hand was resting on a cold white plate, decorated with unique Russian traditional pattern. The meat that was harmonically balanced with fat and muscles was salted and oiled by my grandfather’s hands, thick and rough from heavy carpentering.

With extremely ironic care, as if he was carrying a priceless Guarneri violin, he gently placed his masterpiece on a frying pan that was heated from 750fahrenheit fire. The sound of burning fat was like a sound of constantly beating snare drum. The cold kitchen was heated from the fire like a stage lit by bright lights. Suddenly my grandfather’s grand gesture of cooking overwhelmed and filled my head with delightful imaginations of jazz players, performing at Lincoln Center. The sounds of triumph, base, guitar, and drum were making harmonious balance, creating a piece of smooth jazz that tickled my eardrums.

My grandfather’s aggressive movement of hands to add butter and rosemary herb had woken me up from my dream of music. The butter was melting with rosemary. The steak fully absorbed the rich flavor of butter and the fresh scent of rosemary. With satisfaction, my grandfather once again rigorously placed his masterpiece on a plate.

Without any hesitation, I sliced a piece and I could almost feel every muscle and juice by cutting. The scent of rosemary herb freshened my nose and rich flavor of butter mixed with original grease and juice from the steak tickled my taste buds. It was like the sound of smooth jazz that tickled my eardrum. As I was meticulously consuming the steak, I could see my grandfather smiling. I realized that there was only one steak.

My grandfather always loved European dishes. He said it was eloquent and simple. Among his beloved European food, his favorite plate was steak.

Whenever I came to his house, he would religiously cook me a steak. Somehow he always had the best meat and best rosemary herb, that I liked. I not only enjoyed eating his steak but also loved watching him cook. He always cooked as if he was playing music with intense concentration and gesture. Without knowing, it became my favorite dish as well. Nevertheless my grandfather always cooked only one steak, just for me. He simply said he was too old to eat a steak. Sometimes he just lied that he was already full by looking at me while I was eating. Later I found out that my grandfather had stage four-gallbladder cancer. Due to his old age and the severely spread cancer, doctors could not do much for him. Last year, when I was in school, he passed away. Although I will never see my grandfather’s face and watch him cooking for me again, I can still remember the taste, smell and look of his steak as well as the memory of him that will never fade away.

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The Truth of Flight by Giordan Maggi

The feeling of leaving the ground can sometimes make you think that you can do anything.

Just the impossible fact that you are in the air like a bird can make the possibilities seem endless.

But there is always that one moment when everything falls away.

The moment that your stomach drops and you get butterflies and your ears pop.

When the cities that once seemed so big seem no bigger than ants.

When everything just fades to the blue of the sky and the white of the clouds.

When all the problems in the world that seemed like a heavy load to carry, Fade away even temporarily.

The relief that nothing matters except the one flight to a familiar or an unfamiliar place, Is like food when one is hungry.

But flying makes you realize How small you are in a big world.

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Poem by Matt LoPresti (1998–Present)

Starry Imagination

Van Gogh's stars erupt in the sky, The darkness isn't dark, The crescent moon lightens they village, And leaves a lasting mark.

The nights sky swirls like a mystery, With a jagged mountain poking it, The night isn't so lonely, The stars make it lit.

His painting could be just a starry night, Or it could tell you the meaning of life, To me Van Gogh is a genius behind the canvas, That opens my brain like a knife, Letting my imagination flow.

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Poem by Pat Mullen Shoes My weathered tan Sperrys are barely held together All has fallen apart, Except the old leather I wear them every day, in either sun or shine.

And when it rains my socks get drenched every time Even though I love these shoes, I probably need a new pair And when I finally get new ones, They can't even compare

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Poems by Henry Pratt

Beyond Comprehension (A Poem based on ‘Onement VI’ by Barnett Newman)

There they stand David and Goliath Between them a Wall A barrier of earth and fire Tis a paradoxical separation Between one and the same For thou must truly wonder Who holds which name?

The Left to be David Or the right named Goliath Is it not for the spectator to christen Who shall prosper as their messiah?

Is blue not blue?

Do we not bleed red?

For when one truly thinks The only difference is between The living and the dead.

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The Horrors of Grammar

My stomach plummets heavily to the earth A boulder released from the Mount Everest’s eternal grasp An utter extirpation of Security The dread of impending doom can be felt Rivaled only by those of Pompeii and Nagasaki Remonstration is to no avail The Red Sea is parted Israelites forced between its waves Warriner’s Handbook to Grammatical Success Now sits open on Mrs. Theobald’s desk

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Poem by Gabby Bruck

Reflection (A poem in response to Vincent Van Gogh’s Self Portrait)

The artist stares at his canvas, A face just as solemn as his own looks back.

His own deep eyes and reddish hair are reflected in his work, The oils mirror his mood and his emotions.

The smooth lines record his expression in that moment, His brush strokes dance through the canvas, Capturing his face, like a photograph, but also illustrating his soul.

His paintings remember these feelings, And when the artist rises and walks away, Growing and changing, His portrait remains.

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Poems by Kayla Walewski

Emotion They explain to him.

A soul mate is hard to find.

But he will find love.

Foul after “Scream” by Edvard Munch

Countless people peer through the thick glass concealing my beauty.

Although I do not feel beautiful at all, They say I am worth millions.

The price is not worth the pain I have been through; I feel forgotten.

I feel as if no one understands me, I scream but no one seems to notice.

Everything turns to a blur, a blast of vibrant colors.

Even when everything around me is beautiful, I still feel bland.

I am a lifeless skull.

No hair or facial traits to feel the beauty that others see.

Screaming in despair, I watch in panic as my only escape walks away.

Awaiting the help I know I will never receive, I am considered a piece of art, But even as art I do not feel beautiful.

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My Skates after “My Shoes” by Charles Simic

Skates, concealing the beauty of my inner life: Two sharp blades, Two decayed and worn out plastic boots, Smelling of sweat and hard work.

My childhood dream, which died with doubt, Continues its presence in you, Accompanying my dreams Toward their unreliable fate.

What use are directions to me When in you it is possible to reach my destination, The map to my nightly dream, And still at a distance, of things to appear?

I want to profess my dream, I have created for your perfect abasement, And the strange dream I am dreaming, With you as the goal.

Disciplined and affectionate, you tolerate me: Kinship to work shoes, to roller blades, to a deferred dream, With your speechless composure, constructing The only authentic image of myself.

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Poem by Bei Dao, translated from the Mandarin by Tom Zeshen Liu

北岛著 那时我们有梦， 关于文学 关于爱情 关于穿越世界的旅行。 如今我们深夜饮酒， 杯子碰到一起， 都是梦破碎的声音。

Once we had dreams About writing About love, About traveling around the world Now deep into the night we drink, And the clattering sound of glasses Is that of our shattered dreams.

Bei Dao (whose name literally means northern island) was born on August 2, 1949. He chose his pen name because he came from the north and he likes being alone. He is considered to be one of the Misty poets because of his resistance towards the Chinese government during the Cultural Revolution.

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Body Language by Chloe Coppola

The goose bumps that line your body Speak in Braille.

The quivering of your hands Quickly and sloppily sign.

The uneasiness in your voice Sings a melancholy tune, While the words remain vibrant, Though they aren't true.

You are here.

You are present.

You are known.

The mask that hides your soul Has deep cracks that flood with sweat, Has slight nicks that hold congealed blood, Has gaps that swell with salty tears.

The pills run out and the prescription runs dry.

You are left in solitude with your thoughts, An empty ceiling, And tasks you simply cannot do.

The high of normality is gone.

The coziness of invisibility has shattered.

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The anxiety you feel Is the displeasure shown.

You must hide.

You must go.

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Kicks by Charlie Shulman

You can learn a lot about people by glancing down at their shoes. For me, shoes serve a greater purpose then to solely protect my feet, they allow me to express myself. Over the years I have amassed an array of sneakers, ranging in rarity, brand, color, shape and style. Every pair I own serves a purpose in one way or another, they outline my interests and flaunt my qualities. My “Air-Jordan 5s” exhibit my love for the game of Basketball as well as my idol Michael Jordan. They reveal my desire to be taller and my New York City origins. My pair of “Original Sk8-Hi Vans” shows my passion for skateboarding and my lighthearted attitude. My “Timberland Varsity Boots” display my love of the outdoors and adventuress. The relationship I have built concerning shoes has developed into a deeply sentimental one, a life-style, where shoes go hand in hand with expressing my identity.

My passion for collecting sneakers started on a frosty Christmas Day in 2007. My father presented me with a rectangular box, wrapped tightly in festive paper, riddled with mystery. The excitement infatuated my body and I promptly tore the wrapping paper from the box with reckless ease. As I opened the box my eyes amplified and a guilty smirk lit up my face. Inside the package was a lustrous, exquisite pair of shoes, “Nike SB Skunks”, and from that moment I was hooked on footwear.

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Buying, Selling and trading shoes became a blissful hobby of mine. I began with 100 dollars and my Christmas present, and developed a diverse and measurable collection over time through countless transactions. Now being a seller and consumer of exclusive sneakers in New York comes with its fair share of problems. “Meet-Ups”, the face to face swapping of shoes with another stranger, can be extremely sketchy and dangerous. I have been robbed, conned and threatened several times by people during sneaker deals. Values of shoes constantly sway according to trends, flaws and sizes making it difficult to determine prices. These challenges, though tedious, never deter me from the market, the chase in finding your “grails”, the shoes with the most significant value to you, is too precious to just abandon the trade.

The sneakers I wear define me. I lace up a specific shoe based on my mood, plans, and any random factor momentarily circulating through my head.

During college I want to add to my collection. For each side of my personality I discover or adjust through my college experiences, I will find a pair of shoes to match it. As I get to know myself, and my goals grow, my collection will as well.

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Rocker by Ashley Judson Rocker. Metalhead. Screamo baby. Emo child. Satanist. These are just a few things people call me because of my music taste. I’m not sure whether to answer rock, metal, or screamo when someone asks what I listen to. Basically, anything on the spectrum, from alternative punk to heavier screaming. And plenty of other people listen to these genres as well. At school, it’s not considered “normal” to enjoy these genres of music. I cannot play my music without someone either having the most frightened look on their face, or saying “Shut off that emo-scream music.” Outside these walls, the reactions are entirely different. Thousands of people flock to concerts and festivals to be with each other and enjoy the music they love together. For many, this music is a passion, a lifestyle. I myself was taught to headbang to Godsmack at the ripe young age of 3. You could say our motto is “Gotta start ‘em young.” At one of the recent shows I attended, I looked around the crowd to spot a young boy no older than 6 sitting on his dad’s shoulders, apple juice in hand, and mohawk on head. I know you’re probably thinking, “A moshpit is no place for a kid.”

And you know what, you’re absolutely right. Even though for some reason we like to bodycheck each other for our enjoyment, we are (usually) some of the most respectful people you’ll ever meet. We would never endanger a child in a pit, and never purposely block your view of your favorite band. You’re shorter than us? Come stand in front; hopefully you can see better. You want to crowd surf? I’ll give you a lift. People nowadays have this misconception that people who listen to these genres of music are dangerous, depressed, emo, and Satanists, and even if there are some people that fit those stereotypes, our community will not be categorized by them. Our lifestyle is our love and appreciation of music; it just happens to seem quite angry to outsiders. Unless you enjoy this music or attend a show, you cannot begin to fathom the rush and emotions it gives us. For me, it’s hard to describe my concert experiences.

One song I listen to helps put my emotions into words. “Little girl, there you are, all the lighters looking just like stars. Sing along, feel the sound, Take a ride on the hands of the crowd. Here it comes, the moment when you know you’ll never be the same again. Power chord, see the light, you found your place in the world tonight at the rock show.” These lyrics by Halestorm, although seemingly cheesy, are an accurate depiction of what it feels like to be at a show. Everything just seems to fall into place. However, not all moments of shows are cheesy and emotional. At Mayhem festival this summer, one guy broke his leg, another had to be escorted out by paramedics because he was so high on acid. It’s definitely something that you don’t want to see or be around, but it’s probably just as equally scary as a large wild group of twelve year-old screaming girls trampling you at a One Direction concert. I could describe the 32

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good, the bad, and the ugly about every single show I’ve been to, but what good would that do? It’s hard to convey my passion for this music and this lifestyle.

My advice to you is go out of your comfort zone, and experience this feeling. Go to a musical festival that you probably would never think about going to.

Witness yourself the passion that these people have for their music. Who knows, you might even befriend a metalhead on your journey.

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Poems by Charles-Alexandre Rioux

Today Today is one of those days.

The kind of day that begins with an early morning, And where an alarm clock is not needed because The warmth of the sun through the window is all you need.

I am not going to lie, I wasn’t going to wake up this morning, Mostly because school is not really something I look forward to anymore.

But that blue sky told me a different story, And made me realize I should give it a shot. I did.

Now I am up, and I don’t really know what to do.

I shower and I brush my teeth.

I look in the mirror and I am surprised to see a smile on my face.

I don’t know where it came from, but I am resolute to keep it.

I get dressed, and walk outside. It is going to be a beautiful day.

I make it down to breakfast, where I get the same thing every day.

Waiting for my waffle, Mr. Baudo, like usual, comes out of nowhere.

He thinks I shouldn’t wear an undershirt. I disagree. Things get really awkward.

I walk back to my seat, and he walks back to his. I am confused.

What’s wrong with my undershirt? Guess I’ll never know.

It’s now time to go to class, and my smile is slowly fading away.

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I sit down in front of my teacher. I know this is going to be a long class.

He starts talking, I start crying.

My smile is gone, his smile is on.

I now know today is going to be a bad day, And I realize the sun tricked me once again.

I guess it’s time for me to invest in curtains.

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Lighthouse I have been standing here for many years now, And yet I still can’t get enough of this ocean Sometimes it is so calm you could believe that, Every single creature living in it is asleep It is so calm it looks like oil, and it feels like The only way to get any life out of this blue sheet, Would be to light up a match, and throw it in the water, In order to transform this peaceful place into a firestorm However, believe it or not, I like to ocean best when it looks furious I love the feel and the sound the waves make when they smash on my walls It makes me feel young, and help me forget how long I have been here To be honest, I forget how long I have been here I sometimes get caught up and forget my purpose This purpose, which is to keep sailors safe has become a burden A burden I struggle living with considering the consequences Winter has now fallen on the village, and I am getting ready to sleep The water will freeze, and my light will go down Sailors are rare, and are slowly getting replaced by children Children that, like most French Canadian, will learn to skate on frozen water Memories will be made, and luckily I will be in the front seat to watch

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Ode to Hockey by Jake Kantor

Stepping onto the ice, almost gives you a shock The bitter cold quickly consumes you Seeing the net where the goalie is there to block Rarely letting slip in just a few As the horn sounds and the ref’s whistle blows The players line up and the game is started The puck drops and the players follow where it goes A goal is scored leaving the goalie outsmarted Your teammates celebrate with you as you score.

You get this rush of accomplishment from your toes to your nose You skate by the bench receiving high-fives from everyone Now you realize why you play this sport.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game.

You take one more glance at the scoreboard You and your team have outscored the opponent The celebration carries all the way into the locker room It is in these moments when you realize something It’s not just a sport.

It’s a life style that you chose to sacrifice everything.

You sacrifice everything just for a miniscule amount success Because that miniscule amount of success means the world to you.

Thanks you hockey for giving me these special moments.

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Prose/poems by Arkadiy Ayvazyan Sonnet Freezing wind and dirty snow have climbed up to my throat, And I am waiting forever for the traffic light to end my sentence, Sharing with a herd of rams that keep playing the same note On the instrument they never learned to play at the presence.

Nobody has smiles on their faces because of the Putin regime But nothing was different before he captured the throne, Everyone just need an excuse to live up to their dreams Peeling potatoes and staying glued to the phone.

The music is keeping my frozen soul covered in snow Made of the tears I promised myself to never let drop.

I’ve been told the weather would change a long time ago But my head is still filled with clouds that grow and won’t stop.

I hear my phone screaming at me for not answering a call That was given to me and lost since the last fall.

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One in a series.

My car crashed into the Tretyakovskaya gallery with over a dozen police cars surrounding it. The only positive thing was that I had a beautiful view from the bridge opposite the gallery. My parents were home watching a movie and drinking tea having no idea that I was in some deep shit. I pulled out my phone to take a picture and posted it on my instagram, lit up a cigarette and headed to the bar where all my friends gather. I tried to hitch a ride with a ton of dirt on my face and wearing a completely ripped and burned suit. After standing on the road like an idiot for 20 minutes, receiving various gestures from the drivers, I decided to call Max to pick me up.

Hey, what’s up, I said.

What was that picture you posted on insta? he asked right away. I could already tell he was drunk by the way he spoke.

I said, pick me up from the Ukraine hotel.

He hung up without responding and I assumed he was on his way.

I bummed one more cigarette from the parking guy and sat on the side of the road. Random groups of drunk people walking down the street and having fun made me want to get drunk like a deer. I heard a very loud sound from a car coming up from under the bridge, it was Max. He always drove like someone was chasing him, never caring about traffic rules or speed limits. He made a sharp turn towards me and stopped with the tires making this annoying sound. As soon as I jumped inside the car I grabbed a bottle of vodka with pickles from the back seat, took a shot and asked for another cigarette.

Is that your car in the photo? he asked, passing me the pack of Parliaments.

Yes! I said, a smile on my face.

Shut up, there is no way you crashed into Tretyakovka!! He did not want to believe that it was true.

Don’t worry, my dad will figure it out tomorrow, let’s just go to the "base," I said. I did not want to think about tomorrow, or the day after that, or the next week. I knew Max was worried about me, but he never showed it. We parked the car in front of the club and went in through the back door, thanks to Max who was working there. He got us free drinks and a little table in the silent zone so we could talk about what happened. After a couple of shots Max asked me how I crashed, and I said I raced some random guy and missed the turn.

He laughed and continued looking at the girls that were dancing next to us. I decided to ask them if they wanted a drink, but something was holding me back, in particular the sound of my alarm, and Warner looking for his tie. I opened my eyes, grabbed a towel and went to the shower to get ready for class.

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Time Its presence cannot be explained But it is as it is with no start and no end.

By letting things move it created this place With us who perceive it as space.

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Poem by Maddie Senich

Lane 3 Six lanes are across the lake All four girls turn their heads to the left They all see the same thing, their enemy, Before they can process what they saw The official says, “I have alignment. All sit ready, row!”

Then all four girls do the same thing They bury their oar and slam their legs down All they are thinking about is getting out of the gate fast and first They achieve this, but soon their enemy is catching up and fast This only makes the girls pull harder and faster It is a battle to the finish There are three boats in the race But it has come down to these two boats for the win The enemy is neck and neck with the girls No one knows who is ahead of the other They all cross the finish line at the same time All of the girls look around to see if anyone knows who crossed first No one knows, so the anticipation for the official to announce the results is harrowing All you can hear is the slight breeze in the air and the panting of the girls breathes Then the official announces that the girls had beaten their enemy only by a second Tears, laughter, and screams of excitement fill the air The girls row back to the dock with tears of joy and proudness in their eyes These are the moments that make me love rowing And what make me proud to say I love my teammates

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Nothingness by Eva Jones after Christina’s World

Nothingness I’ve fallen in the field and call out for help, yet no one seems to hear.

What’s the point?

Nothingness I gaze out at the monotonousness shades of grey covering everything, No hope, nor joy, simply indifference.

Nothingness The boundless plains stretch out over the hills and go as far as the eye can see, And I am alone.

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Ode to the orange by Todd Moosey Orange, fruity Tasty, tangy Some of the words That describe my Favorite fruit, The orange Oh orange, How I love you so much!

You provide my mouth With so much taste And pleasure.

The beauty of The orange Is truly indescribable.

From your beautiful Color of orange, To your beautiful Circular shape.

Oranges truly Make the world Flourish with taste.

They make me happy, They make everyone Around me happy, They probably even Make president Obama happy!

My favorite state, Florida, is nicknamed The Orange State.

Florida is home to The best oranges around.

My favorite state having my Favorite fruit.

Not such a bad thing.

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Three poems by Laura van Tartwijk

Coffee I made us some coffee this morning.

I thought you’d like it as I heard you breathing and Couldn’t stop thinking about the day before.

You helped me with math I wrote you a poem, our minds Don’t line up but they sure Do add up as you solved all my Problems and my writing became Yours.

We walked past the rock gate.

We hid from a car.

You told me a story.

I complained about the tar In the cigarette we smoked just Before you stroked my Leg and gently, gently touched My hair and slowly, slowly Let me taste What friends shouldn’t taste – it Burned on my tongue you said it’d Be “just for fun” but how was it fun When I remember eating sand When we were young Digging up earth worms, pulling Them apart, stealing candy from The old man who died from a Failing heart.

Making a rope swing, watching Your body fall as it breaks, stealing Candy once again – we never learned From our mistakes.

Simple children, were we ever that?

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Or was there always this tension, A burning sensation, a fading illusion Of what we were supposed to be?

I made us some coffee this morning.

You took a sip and consequently Spit it out, saying – “Lauralie have you lost your mind?”

“Lola, Lo, Laura, Laur” your voice Trembled but I could hear no more I walked upstairs, grabbed your filthy socks Thrown besides my bed – stepped on that Stupid bible that no one ever read.

“Jesus Christ” that’s all you said last night Yet the poor guy is probably shaking his head Even thinking of the sight Of our fingers intertwined Two foreign bodies clumsily combined Only to face rejection, slight repulsion, When the sunlight made us realize We weren’t truly blind From emotions, complications, The erosion of God’s creations We folded, unfolded, lived and Died And now there’s no way to hide.

You didn’t want the coffee – so my Blood turned black I drank it all – baby, there’s No way back.

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Your Hands The sound of shower water hitting The ground around my feet and toes And empty bottles Lined up in rows Does not drown out the echoes of your hands Tracing my body.

Your hands quite large – five fingers on each one Your hands are not yours you found Each finger under ashtrays and in between Cracks of kitchen doors Your hands are not yours because Your hands open pickle jars and Windows and opportunities when You shake someone else’s – your hands Pick up pencils utensils they Don’t undo velvet Buttons on my dress they wouldn’t Watch my tears drain they Would wipe them away – your hands fight guys bad guys big guys They don’t Fight me but your hands Told me lies.

Your fingers stung softly Like the soap In my eyes – surprise – Your hands do not Know of compromise – surprise – I have spent sixty minutes Mesmerized by watching formations And clouds of steam Rise – surprise.

Your hands I can’t peel them Off of my skin – your hands – How did I ever let them win.

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The ground around my feet and toes And empty bottles Lined up in rows Does not drown out the echoes of your hands Tracing my body.

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Wanderlust The quiet rustling of sheets we Laid entangled in lies and Deceit - your hands got caught in The tangles and knots unfolding And folding – who would Have thought?

That love isn’t innocent nor Pure, more so pain we Endure – the inequality of Rips and tears left to receive Broken mirrors and Empty stares.

You could’ve caught me If you can but instead you Foolishly ran - away didn’t cut The rope I’m still holding on – I Know it won’t Be long Before the weight won’t Lift from your shoulders and The thoughts inside you Grow colder – the soles of your Shoes no longer support All of the moments Cut short.

Your eyes will melt and Memories will drip down to Your lips – can you taste my Revenge? Everything you’ve Done has a Consequence.

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Excerpt from Gunn Scholar essay by Jessica Qi Xu Girls’ Boarding School: From Walking, Dancing to Organized Sports

While the boys’ boarding schools developed their athletic involvement earlier and quickly, the girls’ boarding schools did not win as much support for physical training from their heads who deemed athletics or physical exercises as “unladylike” (DeBare, 96). Schools like Hathaway Brown School, founded in 1876, and Miss Porter’s, founded in 1843, were explicitly against interschool games or, in other words, competitive playing for girls (DeBare, 96). Miss Porter, the founding headmistress of Miss Porter’s once told a girl that her reason for not having a dirt field to replace the grass tennis court was that the latter would not foster as much competitive playing (DeBare, 96). In her words, though it is clear that competitive playing was not allowed in the school, as she said, “we utterly disapprove of any competition – any emulation entering into it.” It is also obvious that physical training was welcomed as long as the girls acted gracefully and not violently. Miss Porter stated that the school had “no desire that any of you [students] should become or be known as accomplished tennis player,” but that it (the school) desired that the students “should play as entertainment” (DeBare, 96). The decision of most girls’ schools to not be involved in competitive sports resulted from the idea of being a graceful and elegant woman. This was also reflected later in the concern for college-level 51

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women athletes. In order to win the support of the faculty at Smith College for basketball, Senda Berenson, the instructor, let her basketball players demonstrate graceful and delightful dancing movements in front of the faculty body to show that they could still keep their poise (Xu).

In the 19th century, women hadn’t become as assertive as they are now. Most often, the role of women in society was to raise their children and stay at home and do household work. Therefore, suggesting that women refrain from more aggressive sports involvement was within the society’s stereotype of being “neat, quiet and accommodating” (DeBare, 98). At the same time, mild physical involvement made women more able to bear babies and take care of them.

This idea of appropriate physical exercise became more acceptable as women’s education grew more important. Emma Willard in the 19th century is a perfect example of promoting physical training, but not rigorous athletics. The curriculum designed at Emma Willard School revealed “a progressive concern with the benefits of physical education” (Hanmer, 112). The ultimate purpose of Emma Willard School was to prepare mothers of future presidents (Hanmer), which is a step up from simply being good mothers. Therefore, at first, Emma Willard established highly rigorous courses to prepare the girls intellectually for their ultimate goal, being presidents’ mothers. Later on, the seminaries, which are independent high schools for girls, like academies are for boys, were generally criticized for only creating young ladies who were too devoted to their 52

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studies while becoming sickly and unsteady (Hanmer, 112). As Emma Willard School became aware of the importance of a sound body for giving birth and raising babies, or maybe under the pressure of the society’s voices, it also included exercises aiming to “develop body symmetry, graces of movement and sound health” (Xu). They included both dancing and calisthenics in their curriculum to help the girls be more physically prepared for the raising of their children. Compared to the aims of baseball and football, the body exercises at Emma Willard only aimed to construct a fit body. Towards the end of 19th century, non-competitive physical exercise turned into a requirement for all the girls at Emma Willard. Girls are required to “take daily walks for at least an hour in the open air” (Xu). Also, gymnastics grew to be a big part of their physical exercise. Emma Willard invited Miss. Grace L. Waterman, from the Boston Normal School of Gymnastics to take control of the gymnasium work in 1896 (Xu), and it was also mandatory for students to have regular practice in the gym (Xu). The momentum of physical exercise carried to the start of 20th century, when Emma Willard began to introduce competitive team sports, like field hockey and basketball. The school started to hold basketball games in 1901 and field hockey games took place in 1902 (Xu). The increase of women’s competitive sports reflected the trend in society; as women started to become more assertive and active in the society in the late 19th and early 20th century, they also advocated their rights and promoted their role by becoming involved in activities that were first considered only, or mostly for men, like competitive sports.

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Even though most girls’ schools in the late 19th century were behind at first on their involvement in athletics, Mr. Gunn started his school allowing the girls to play on the baseball team. According to Gunnery legend, there was a girl named Amy Kenyon, who played in a baseball game. She hid the ball under her skirt, and ran the bases, pretending that she hit a home run. Gunn was ahead of his time in promoting ideas that were at the time unpopular, whether as an abolitionist or the acceptance of girls when he first founded his school.

Therefore, it is reasonable to deduce that Mary Brinsmade’s decision to include physical exercise in her school, Judea Female Seminary’s curriculum was supported by Gunn. At Judea Seminary, which was founded in 1846, the girls were of high school age, but receiving the college level education Mary Brinsmade brought from Mount Holyoke Seminary, which was founded in 1837 and took girls who were younger than college age. The girls at Judea Seminary did calisthenics wearing bloomers under Mary’s teaching, which was then criticized by the minister of the Congregational Church (So). Mary Brinsmade, like Gunn, was a forerunner in the women’s movement and had a leading role in women’s education. It is hard to say how much influence Gunn had over Mary, but they both recognized the importance of physical exercise for not only men, but also women from early on, which is very notable and rare.

In conclusion, though initially for a purpose of taking care of children, girls’ boarding schools like the boys’, promoted physical exercises, starting with

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simple walking and dancing. It was rather crucial for the early headmistresses to gradually realize the benefits, other than health, that athletics and competitive sports brought to girl students. Later, as the society put more focus and had more tolerance for a broader role for women in society, women’s athletics developed quickly. Evidence of this trend can be seen in the engagement of women at the college level.

This essay will be published in its entirety by The Gunnery.

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Poem by Luke Ocasio Rain in the air I feel like a pear But I love all my pears Breathing in this clean Washington air Knowing next year I won’t be here Friday night lights?

Be there or be square Looking at the walls as they spin Room shrinking the windows winding thin The rug flies as I close my eyes Floating in the air Content as a pear Blank desk Blank screen So much thought, so little seen Look at a blank wall thinking how to get all these thoughts seen So I typed them on that screen

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Three poems by Virginia Dodenhoff His Garden I walked into his garden for the first time And for some reason My feet took root into his floors.

With every step I grew.

I flourished.

I blossomed.

I grew into a beautiful flower.

He watered me, Gave me sunlight.

And love.

He cared for me.

He pruned me.

And when my petals fell, He picked them up, And kept them in a jar.

I kept flourishing; Thriving in his pot.

He was a gardener.

He was working in mysterious ways, Yet he never knew how he was making me grow.

I was once weak, Breaking at the touch, But with his sunshine and water My roots grew strong, My stem grew tough, And my petals grew large.

There is something lovely about flowers, But something more lovely about him.

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Someone told me once Someone told me once that the reason we live on this earth is to find happiness, bliss, nirvana.

People say that happiness does not exist.

But my friend said he found it the other day when he looked into the eyes of the girl he loved.

Some kid was laughing.

Is that not happiness?

Happiness is freedom.

It’s letting go.

This world is hard.

We do what we don’t want to do.

That’s how the world works.

Unfortunately.

Life isn’t easy.

Life isn’t fair.

Those who work their asses off win.

They get what they want.

People who give in will lose.

They will lose all that they have.

“What is happiness?”

That’s what they’ll ask.

“I don’t think there is such a thing as ‘happiness.’”

But that’s because they’re lazy.

I’ve heard it said that if you just say “yes,” you could figure it out later.

People constantly do things they don’t want to do.

But, Will that lead to happiness, bliss, nirvana?

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Carrying things Sure, I carry things.

I always have a Bible, a pen, a journal.

Maybe some chapstick Some mints.

My phone, my sunglasses, my hopes.

A book my friend suggested to me.

My past.

My future.

I also tend to carry a water bottle and my keys.

I like having those things that make your chopsticks work without trying.

Regret, guilt, temptation.

Every now and then I’ll bring my laptop with me.

How you call me “fat” almost every day.

I also like to bring some mascara.

The Hobbit, because I started it last March and I still have yet to finish it.

Scars.

Hatred.

I carry my wallet.

It’s filled with money, coins, a smoothie punch card I use at the gym when I get protein shakes.

Calluses.

Blisters.

My Prayer box.

Another pen.

A pencil.

An iPod. Headphones.

Fear.

Stress.

Deodorant.

The schedule for the Saints’ season. (We aren’t making it to the super bowl this year.)

Oh, how could I forget?

I always carry a smile.

Yes, A smile.

It covers all those things I carry.

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Arkadiy Ayvazyan Gabby Bruck Skylar Cluett Chloe Coppola Lorrey Dai Bei Dao, trans. Tom Zeshen Liu Virginia Dodenhoff Kenny Fleming Eva Jones Ashley Judson Jake Kantor Jenna Jaewon Lee Miranda Levin Tom Zeshen Liu Matt LoPresti Giordan Maggi Todd Moosey Patrick Mullen Henry Pratt Charles-Alexandre Rioux Dana Ross Ele Schickler Maddie Senich Charlie Shulman Laura-Delight van Tartwijk Angela Vedeneva, trans. Dana Ross Kayla Walewski Emily Williams Jessica Qi Xu Miranda Jingqiong Yang Victor Tianhe Yang