Liggett lambrequin 2016 17

LIGGETT 2017

University Liggett School Literary & Arts Magazine Upper School / 2016-2017

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The Lambreq

uin

Best in..

LAMBREQUIN

The Lambrequin moderator, with advising from faculty and student members, chooses a Best In... piece to recognize for outstanding skill and creativity in its respective field.

Poetry from Late Night/Early Morning poetry series

by ZAHRA KHAN // pages 13 & 32 Prose, Fiction “The Moor” by SASHA JOVANOVSKI // pages 15-16

The Lambrequin

LITERARY & ARTS MAGAZINE UNIVERSITY LIGGETT SCHOOL

The world

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LAUREN PORTER ‘18 // WATERCOLOR

Prose, Nonfiction “Tears, Tarps, and Blankets of Stars”

by AMELIA DOETSCH // pages 64-65 Art, Photography The Paint Series by HOLLAND MCCLINTON // cover, pages 49, 73, 78-79 Art, Non Photography Piece: “Confided” self-portrait

by CHELCIE WALLER // page 44 Portfolio: AMANI TOLIN // pages 23, 31, 71 (and more we did not have room to include)

cover art: Catey HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

LIGGETT 2017

School address: 1045 Cook Rd. Grosse Pointe Woods, MI 48236 School phone: (313) 884-4444 email: the.lambrequin@uls.org Head of School: Dr. Joseph P. Healey Head of Upper School: Mr. Karl Palmgren

continental drIft

LAMBREQUIN

letters from THE editors

WILLIAM HIGBIE ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

This is my second year with the Lambrequin and my first as (co) Editor-in-Chief, and I am ecstatic to be sharing this year’s magazine with you. More so than last year, we decided to style all the pages and spreads in a minimalistic fashion, which allowed us to play with white space and arrangement. We also have given this year’s issue a theme: a movement from the dark to the light. As you read this magazine, be cognizant of the theme and be aware of the piece you are reading—for not all are dark and gloomy.

Flip to the back page if the first is too depressing or flip to the front if you’re in the mood for some haunting literature.

Having helped to read all the pieces and chose all the art, I can say with confidence that our school is full of unrecognized literary and artistic talent. This magazine is only a device for sharing said talent, and we would be nothing without you. I’m excited to work one more year with the Lambrequin and, more so, I’m excited to see what other amazing things we students have waiting!

Mission Statement & Colophon

The Lambrequin was developed to showcase the talent of Liggett upper school and to provide an outlet for students to express themselves through visual art, photography, poetry, short story, and music. We look for creative works that capture those unexpected, often overlooked moments in life that jolt us into a new sense of awareness and transform our community.

Published spring 2017 by by In-Print Graphics in Oak Forest, Illinois.

125 copies were printed for the Upper School and distributed on a limited, first-choice basis.

A digital version—including full texts of longer fiction pieces—is available for reading on the school website: www.uls.org Typeface throughout is Mate size 12. Title font (including cover) is Pompelmus Sweet; byline font Yanone Kaffeesatz Thin. Magazine is printed on 80# velvet paper, cover 100# velvet.

The magazine is designed on Adobe InDesign; images are edited using Adobe Photoshop.

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Editorial Board Policies

& from THE moderator

This year’s issue came together in just three weeks, which is an insanely short amount of time. While reading and reviewing submissions was a months-long undertaking, the actual layout and design was done in record time—and the efforts of the two editors-in-chief cannot be overstated. They completed (with grace and charm) thankless tasks that ensured we were able to get the issue to print in time.

Submissions are accepted throughout the first three quarters of the year; all students are encouraged to submit. Submissions are read and chosen by the editorial staff. All students in the upper school are welcome to join the editorial staff.

Editorial Staff

Faculty Advisor: Ms. Elizabeth Wagenschutz Editors-in-Chief: Holland McClinton ‘18, Lina Tate ‘18 Assistant Editors: William Higbie ‘19, Keri IngeMarshall ‘19 Staff Readers & Design Assistants: Maria Fields ‘20, Maria Pas ‘19, Saudia Tate ‘18, Tati Wallace ‘18

CRAWL

HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

LIGGETT 2017

We received an overflowing number of pieces this year, and although one might think it would make our jobs easier, there was a great deal of difficulty selecting what pieces to use in this edition.

Within all these pieces we found some that were dark and a little twisted, some that were just dark, some that were just plain weird, and then some very light and joyful pieces. With all of these varying levels of emotions, we began with the more dark pieces and transitioned our way into the more lighthearted pieces of work.

One of the best things to see was just how creative our community really is. It is obvious that our school encourages the student body to produce pieces that mean something. To all who willingly submitted their work to us, and to all who gave in after a couple of pushes, we thank you. Unfortunately, we could not include all of your work, but we cannot express to you how much we enjoyed reading and observing all of your brilliant creations. So thank you! We hope you enjoy this year’s magazine

In addittion to the movement from light to dark, you will discover within a motif of eyes, arising naturally from what students created. Whether we’ve all been spending too much time with The Great Gatsby (something I’d argue is impossible), or we are feeling too viewed by others, eyes are clearly on our minds. We hope that your eyes enjoy perusing this collection.

Elizabeth Wagenschutz

Green Room by Sasha Jovanovski I Love You/The Lies We Tell by Lina Tate Being Black in America by Jasmine Dickens To Exploration by Tamara Ajjour 11:38pm by Zahra Khan 1:47am by Zahra Khan Railroad Tracks by Rebecca Lohman Voodoo Doll by Gaby Cavataio Nights II by Keri Inge-Marshall Dear Earth by Lina Tate Malinalli by Jasmine Dickens Malinalli by Maddie Fozo The Comet by Victoria Ortiz Koi by Keri Inge-Marshall 3:31am by Zahra Khan College Gates by Alison Lilla Don’t Forget To. . . by Lucy Alpert It’s The Little Things by Kaitlyn Lee Sky Blue by Rebecca Lohman Lost Beyond the Skies by Rebecca Lohman BElieve in YOUrself by Sabrina Malkoun hotboxnyc by Christian Ilitch Limerick of Loathing by Lucy Alpert �� by Cassie Zeng Alluring Shadow by Christian Ilitch Outdoors by Tamara Ajjour pretty by Victoria Ortiz Pomegranates . . by Annabel Romanelli Sleeping Beauty by Bryan Wahl A World of Colors by Maddie Wu Wet Floor by Annabel Romanelli Carrots! By Bryan Wahl

PROSE NONFICTION 33 46 61 62 64 68 70 74 76 78

The Burst by Max Wiegel Rolling by Annabel Romanelli Stand a Little Taller by Melanie Zampardo Physics is a Hydra by Olivia Ponte Tears, Tarps, and . . . by Amelia Doetsch There Are More Trees . . . by Amelia Doetsch My Pet Peeves by Gaby Cavataio How To Play Circle by Tamara Ajjour Where Everything . . . by Lucy Barnowske 50 Tips and Tricks . . . by Zahra Khan

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A Deadly Disguise by Kaelan Patel full text in digital edition only An Assassin’s Account by T.J. Dulac full text in digital edition only My Hair by Lauryn Holliday The Moor by Sasha Jovanovski Tears by Kalei Sliwinski Oscula Manum Regis by Lucy Alpert Wonderland by Sasha Jovanovski Remembering by Astana Gaffney full text in digital edition only Sodapop by Katriel Tolin The Matter Was Decided by Emma Streberger

FILM 0 0 0

What Will Your Verse Be (& selected others)

by William Higbie Reverie by Emma Shell Nature (& selected others)

by Cough Out Loud Productions: Geoffrey Elmer & Quinn Nehr

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MUSIC 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

Fantasia in B Minor by Sasha Jovanovski Primavera (cover) by Sasha Jovanovski Becoming the Wind (cover)

by Sasha Jovanovski Dacw ‘Nghariad (cover) by Sasha Jovanovski Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto performed

by Andrew Wu Cyclone by Charlie Amine 25 by Desmon Darby Promise by Hope Kulka

contents

PHOTOGRAPHY

EVERYBODY FITS IN SOMEWHERE . . .

ART / NON-PHOTOGRAPHY 2 2 4 5 9 10 13 18 20 23 24 28 30 31 32 33 35 36 37 37 38 39 41 44 48 52 56 58 64 70 71 71 74 76 77

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LIGGETT 2017

Solo by Saudia Tate Rorschach by Isabella Cubba Splat by Jaycie Rickert Skull Mosaic by Hope Kulka Winter by Brooke Hudson Kamea by Hope Kulka Who is she? by Keri Inge-Marshall

by Cassie Zeng Lilith by Jovana Djokovic Panthera Leo by Amani Tolin Despair by Hope Kulka Victim by Jovana Djokovic Flipped by Maria Evola Janus by Amani Tolin Porcelain Face by Lauren Porter Beat Generation by Laney Sheehan Explosion by Mason Campau Wicked Green . . . by Natalia AliAhmed Cotton Candy Paradise by Chelcie Waller Trumpet by Ivy Meraw Blind Self Portrait by Bea Bernard Pilot by Theodoore Wujek When Will I Be Skinny Enough by Cassie Zeng Confided by Chelcie Waller The Eyes Have It by Lauren Porter Glass Paperweights by Natalia AliAhmed To Bee or Not To Bee . . . by Lucy Barnowske Scales by Lucy Barnowske Stampede by Alexandra Diggs Avogadro or Avocado by Todd Costello “A Dolphin’s Smile . . .” by Amani Tolin Ceramic Blue-Ringed . . . by Maddie Fozo Rollerskate by Molly Schelosky Where Everything . . . by Lucy Barnowske Things To Do . . . by Annabel Romanelli

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Identity by Emma Streberger Desolate Plane by William Higbie Cherub by Katriel Tolin Abigail by Holland McClinton Mary. by Tegan Jones Evan. by Tre Caine Ultraviolet by William Higbie Bella by Lauren Meredith Lakeside by Emma St. John Down the Waves by CJ Morris Sunny Baudelaire by Abby Hung Unspoken by Madeleine Wujek Tati by Holland McClinton Scales by Lucy Barnowske Jackson by Holland McClinton Boom by Holland McClinton Up Above by William Higbie John’s Island Hibiscus by Abby Hung Nobody’s Sheep by William Higbie Keep Looking Up by William Higbie The Girl & the Bear by Katriel Tolin Bloom. Bright. Buzz. by Holland McClinton Trees by CJ Morris Alabama Cardinal by Abby Hung Central Park Waterfall by Holland McClinton Sleeping Beauty by Spencer Lukas Detroit Skyline by Michael Litt Annabel by Holland McClinton Straight Face by Holland McClinton

CHELCIE WALLER ‘17 // GRAPHITE

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PROSE FICTION

SABRINA MALKOUN ‘18 // GRAPHITE

POETRY

contents

IZZY BRUSILOW ‘19 // CERAMICS

LAMBREQUIN

LAMBREQUIN

FILM

Other media submissions

SASHA JOVANOVSKI ‘17 // POETRY

WILLIAM HIGBIE ‘19

William’s films can be viewed on his vimeo page: vimeo.com/higbie. These include films WHAT WILL YOUR VERSE BE, A NIGHT WITH COLDPLAY, BE HERE NOW, and more. “Filmmaking has the power to change opinions, educate, and provoke thought. I am passionate about social justice and interested in understanding other people’s perspective.

I use my films to tell stories which reflect the diversity of our society and inspire my viewers to understand another point of view.”

EMMA SHELL ‘17 Emma’s short film REVERIE is available on the school portal for viewing. This short film sets images and music to a recording of Alan Watts’ speech on “The Dream of Life.” The film is about dreams, nightmares, and illusions.

FROM RENEE KUCZESKI, TEACHER OF THE MUSIC PRODUCTION CLASS: “The objective was to make students critically think about how to make a music composition sound cohesive while also exploring the many ways one can manipulate sounds in a composition.” We chose three pieces to feature here, all available on the portal.

CHARLIE AMINE ‘19 // CYCLONE DESMON DARBY ‘18 // 25 HOPE KULKA ‘19 // PROMISE ANDREW WU ‘17 //

MUSIC

Green Room

A rendition of the second movement of Tchaikovsky’s VIOLIN CONCERTO.

I laugh at myself in the mirror Try and see what they see in me I don’t see it, and I won’t see it But every night I look

identity

COUGH OUT LOUD PRODUCTIONS (COLP): GEOFFREY ELMER ‘19 & QUINN NEHR ‘19

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These short comic videos are available on their youtube site: https://goo.gl/QkJjLM. These films include NATURE, OATS INFOMERCIAL, and CHORES. The videos are, according to their creators, unscripted and unplanned; all the magic happens in the editing.

SASHA JOVANOVSKI ‘17 // Four musical performances 1: An original composition FANTASIA IN B MINOR: “Fantasias often include an amalgam of themes; mine was composed to sound like the telling of a story in different chapters.”

2: A piano cover of PRIMAVERA, composed by Ludovico Einaudi.

3: A ukulele cover of BECOMING THE WIND, a song by Ayano Tsuji from The Cat Returns: “My cover excludes the vocal line entirely, leaving only chords played in a uniform strumming pattern. The result is a raw, blithe sound that displays the song’s underlying musical beauty without any singular, dominant theme.”

4: A violin/viola cover of DACW ‘NGHARIAD, a Welsh folk song: “My arrangement the song goes against convention and gives the vocal line to the viola. This creates an uncommon effect: the notes of the melody are consistently lower than those of the harmony.

EMMA STREBERGER ‘17 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

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LIGGETT 2017

A DEADLY DISGUISE

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

KAELEN PATEL ‘18 // HISTORICAL FICTION

solo

SAUDIA TATE ‘18 // GRAPHITE

December 6th 1982

9 A.M. The morning was lazy. The rain that swept in suddenly had finally tapered. Now that the sun had emerged and erased the shadows of billowy gray clouds, rays of light shone between thick, lapping leaves of Ceiba trees. They made their way slowly but certainly through the woven curtains covering the open window of Diego’s home in Dos Erres, a village in the municipality of Las Cruces, the Northernmost region of Guatemala. Diego swung his legs down over the hammock and stood up with a resolute yawn. His morning had begun, and after he took a quick wash with the well water he collected the night before, Diego was on his way. His students would surely be waiting.

Diego feasted his eyes upon the lovely mountains that peaked over the treetops as he walked along the rocky road. He waved to the neighborhood women, their huipiles blowing in the wind while they prepared tortillas for their men, who made their way to work the on milaps or cornfields. They greeted back in their Mayan language. He almost didn’t notice when the short, tan-skinned man in blue overalls merged onto the path with him.

“Maestro! Maestro!”

Diego turned to his left and saw the father of one of his best pupils, Nicolas. Fernando Sanchez, his father, had called out to him, and Diego slowed his pace to match Fernando’s.

“Fernando. How are you?” Diego inquired.

“I’m quite worried to tell you the truth. Lt. Carias’s meeting demanding us to support the government by joining the armed civil defense felt threatening to me. We don’t want to be a part of the war between the government and the guerillas. All we want to do is live our lives peacefully! Our refusal could be dangerous,” Fernando explained.

Diego placed his hand on Sanchez’s shoulder as they walked. Diego was well aware of the government’s manipulation and coercion of the There’s much more to this heartbreaking story based on people. President Montt had made it clear with his real events. Find the full text online in the digital copy on words, “If you are with us, we will feed you; if not, the school website.

ISABELLA CUBBA ‘20 //

GLUE RELIEF PRINT

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we will kill you.” He would conscript anyone into his fight against the guerillas, and it was dangerous to get in his way.

“I have heard that Lt. Carias has turned hostile and is falsely accusing us of harboring guerrillas. I am fearful for our lives. We are an inferior culture to them. We have no power in Montt’s ruthless regime, and he will make us pay for not supporting the government in their fight against the guerillas,” Fernando said with conviction. “ W h a t are guerillas, Papá?” Nicolas innocently asked.

“Well, son, they are people who believe that they can change the government through combat... or violence,” Fernando answered.

Coming to a fork in the path, Sanchez paused and noted, “I go this way. Nicolas be a good boy and learn hard! I want you to have a good education, get out of here, and have a better life,” Fernando said and started on his own path.

As Diego and Nicolas walked toward the school, a drop of water fell from a leaf above Diego’s head and hit him square on the tip of his nose. He jerked his head up. Wispy gray billows were drifting slowly overhead again. The droplet made its way over the ridge of his nose and through the modest cavern of his lip. When it finally reached his mouth, Diego let his tongue out slightly to taste it. He recoiled. It was surprisingly bitter, almost ferrous. As he started his walk back to the school, he couldn’t help but be taken aback by the bitter taste.

He couldn’t help but be taken aback by the bitter taste.

LAMBREQUIN 12 P.M.

The school was constructed of wooden pillars holding up a straw roof. It had a blackboard on one side, but other than the one wall, it was completely open. Tables and benches were placed in the middle of the mud floor with slates and chalk for the students. During a break-time, Diego watched his student, Mishel, illustrate two beautiful tigers on the board. She had never seen a real tiger before. But the black board was irresistible to an artistic and inquisitive girl like her. She had been reading about the tigers of far away places like Russia and Asia, and as her hand made the contours that realized the images of these two fierce beasts, she wondered if she would ever be able to see a tiger in real life.

Just as Mishel finished the whiskers and the eyes, sharp steady sounds just a few miles away became apparent. The children murmured slightly, speculating about what it was that they had heard.

The students’ eyebrows raised, hearts pounded, and every muscle in their bodies grew tense as the “tch tch tch tch tch” of the rifles became clearer.

Nearly ten black jeep-like vehicles became visible. The students looked around, one to the other, and then to another. Their eyes showed a mix of intrigue and confusion. Diego commanded the children to pair up and run out into the surrounding jungle to hide as fast and as far as they could.

“Go, now!” he cried. They fled like chased antelope on the Serengeti, and their chests heaved with every quick breath. They all scattered, except Nicolas, who held onto Diego with his sweaty fingers.

“I can’t. I am afraid,” he said. Diego grabbed his hand and ran. They were just about to approach the brush near the clearing adjacent to the school when Diego registered the closeness of the cars and sensed danger. They dove into the brush. Diego jerked his head around feverishly, trying to see

everything. He could see it all.

The vehicles pulled up quickly towards the school. The vehicle doors creaked open one by one, and military style booted legs stamped heavily into the muddy ground. Rifles were slung across the shoulders of most, and those who weren’t armed with guns carried sledgehammers and machetes.

Most left the doors of their cars open, though they turned the engines off.

“Where are the rest of the soldiers?” one soldier asked the others.

“They are still searching every single shack in the village. They have been instructed to gather all the captives and assemble them here for interrogation,” replied the other.

1:00 P.M. The soldiers who had scattered throughout the village returned with groups of men, women, and children they had captured.

As the captives marched to the clearing, it became apparent that some had ropes tied to their necks. Many soldiers carried radios, tape recorders, and objects of value they had stolen from the houses. The soldiers appeared to be guerillas wearing green t-shirts, civilian pants, and red armbands. But the way they marched, their expensive boots, and their fancy rifles were a sure sign that they were government soldiers. In fact, Diego recognized one of the men. He was a military officer who had been present at the meeting where Lt. Carias’s men had asked them to join the armed civil defense. The attitude of the military became clear: Whatever happens in Dos Erres should be blamed on the guerillas.

These men were Kaibiles, insurgency soldiers, who were trained not merely to kill, but to desecrate.

These were Kaibiles, insurgency soldiers trained to desecrate. their mission was to spare no one, not even their innocent children.

They perceived these villagers as natural allies of the guerillas, and their mission was to spare none of them, not even their innocent children.

Diego watched a man being called before the rest. The soldier kicked him in the groin and then smashed the rifle against his head. Blood oozed down his face onto his shirt. His body slumped to the ground, and he stopped moving. A woman ran to him and threw her body on top of his. In that instant, the soldier pointed the rifle at the woman’s head and let off a round. One by one, the soldiers dragged the men and beat them, demanding to know where they had hidden the non-existent weapons given to them by the guerillas. Each bullet flew straight at a hostage’s head.

As a soldier took out his machete and sank it casually in Fernando’s throat, Diego placed his hand over Nicolas’s eyes. Nicolas saw from between Diego’s fingers that the blood flowed in spurts as the soldier sawed his father’s trachea with the machete already covered in blood. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, but knew he couldn’t. His father’s last words rang in his mind – “be a good boy and learn hard! I want you to have a good education, get out of here.” He needed to survive this massacre.

Diego hung his head, and suddenly, the tears came.

The worst was not over yet.

Diego clutched the earth as he recognized his students amongst the captives. None of them had made it. A few children, both boys and girls were dragged into the school. Although it started raining again and the sky darkened as if it were dusk, Diego could clearly hear and see everything.

The soldiers separated the boys from the girls forming two lines. Each of them lay face down with their hands over the backs of their heads. The soldiers pointed the rifles at the boys’ scalps. “Bang,” “Bang,” “Bang,” the gun fired twenty seconds apart, right in a row, leaving brain matter splattered on the floor.

The girls were still alive. Diego could hear Mishel begging, “Please take me next!” She was the last one in the line. The rifle pointed at the girls, and their guttural cries for mercy made Diego’s stomach knot up. He vomited instantly into the soppy brown earth. As he wiped his mouth, rainwater flooding down his face, he saw Mishel laying on the ground and staring up at the blackboard.

The blood of a victim streaked across the classroom, a string of it landing on the chalkboard.

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LIGGETT Blood droplets dripped down the board where2017 the tigers were drawn, making it seem like one of the tigers was crying blood. Most of it landed on the body of the more prominent tiger, and it began to look like it had been in an awful fight with another animal and was now bathed in its blood. Underneath Mishel’s drawing, a rifle pointed at her. She closed her eyes tightly for the last time . . .

“These people need to make some more sacrifices for their government. They didn’t do enough,” one soldier scoffed.

6:00 P.M. Body by body, two soldiers hauled a victim to the well. One soldier took hold of the arms while the other carried the legs, and they dropped the corpses into the black abyss of the well. Diego started to tremble, then shake, then convulse, but he tried his hardest not to make noise. If he and Nicolas were caught, they would be shot immediately and thrown down the well, too. Finally, the last body made its thud upon the others. As the soldiers finished their work, they laughed. The jeeps roared away into the jungle, and their thundering motors trailed off into distance. Silence. When Diego knew the coast was clear, he screamed out inconsolably, his arms outstretched toward the sky. He picked up the broken-hearted and weary Nicolas. Nicolas was unable to say a single word. Diego had to get him out of there. He wished there was something he could say to comfort Nicolas, but everything he thought to say seemed pointless. Nicolas would have to know, as Diego did, that horrific things happen in a world like this one, and sometimes the powerful step on the necks of the powerless. Sometimes, they do worse . . .

Nicolas’s body bobbed lifelessly as Diego walked him away. Looking at the boy, Diego leaned in and whispered to him, “Sometimes there just isn’t anything we can do.” It made him feel awful to say it, but it was true.

THE ONSET OF EL SALVADOR’S CIVIL WAR: AN ASSASSIN’S ACCOUNT

“I do not believe in death without resurrection. If they kill me, I will be resurrected in the Salvadoran people.”

-Blessed Oscar Arnulfo Romero Part 1: The Coup October 15, 1979: Coup d’état of the Revolutionary Government Junta (JRG)

T.J. DULAC ‘17 // FICTION

LAMBREQUIN

from the radio.

“Would you ever imagine?” I exclaimed. “A moderate revolution!”

More sounds of delight soared throughout the room, releasing the built-up anxieties of these stressful, cagey past few weeks. Running on adrenaline since 4:30 AM, we should have been depleted, yet our youth and relief sustained our energy. The confusion in the barracks this morning had finally cooled, but I felt as if I could still hear the condemnations of those in disfavor of the coup haunting the halls. I still heard myself shouting orders to detain the very people who held power over me for all these years. Indeed, I had never been one to give orders before. Where did I find such courage?

We continued our present giddiness, savoring this joyous moment while it lasted. It felt so nice to stop worrying about the future and take in the moment. I craved this feeling, this total immersion in the present. It was that same coveted feeling of looking down the barrel of a loaded gun, that pure focus on controlling the moment.

The deafening silence was broken by a crackle of the radio, followed by, “Good news, hermanos.”

Then, updates of the coup from the military frequency came flowing out of the little box centered on the steel table.

I fell back into my chair with a long exhale, interlacing my white knuckles behind my head as my comrades-in-arms were hugging each other enthusiastically in our crowded room. The words felt as sweet as honey, and I listened to fellow officers ring shouts of joy: “Bless the junta!”

“Down with el General!”

“Praise God!” “Praise the military!”

“Praise Carter!”

Parts 2-4 (based on the real, historical events of Blessed We let our bellies rise and fall in joy, our relief Romero’s assassination) are available in the digital copy drowning out the long-anticipated news still flowing on the school website.

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SPLAT

JAYCIE RICKERT ‘18 // WATERCOLOR

Part 2 Call to Death March 23, 1980: Final broadcasted sermon of Archbishop Romero

LIGGETT 2017 Part 3 My Five Seconds March 24, 1980: The Assassination of Archbishop Romero

It was the first time I had ever seen his face break from his usual apathetic mold. That was the first of two abnormalities that I noticed when I was led into the room. I had been called into d’Aubuisson’s office many times over the years that I knew him, but he had always had an extraordinarily calm demeanor. I assumed it had been his cool head that had helped him reach such a position in the military intelligence of the JRG. The second strange occurrence was that a radio I had never noticed before held a quiet presence in the corner of the room. My eyes fixed on the piercing eyes of the scowling man, who was staring intently at me from his chair across the room. I perked up my ears to catch what d’Aubuisson was listening to.

“I would like to make a special appeal to the men of the army . . .”

D’Aubuisson interrupted the quiet broadcast, gesturing toward a chair on the opposite side of his desk and ordering with a slight hostility in his voice, “Sit down, please. I need your help with an issue that has just arisen.”

Once I lowered myself to meet him at eye level, he opened his mouth slowly: “I need your particular . . .” he searched for the right word, “. . . talents. In light of recent opposition to La Junta Revolucionaria de Gobierno, I have an assignment for you.” As he paused, I focused my ears once more on the background noise. “‘Thou shall not kill.’ No soldier is obliged to obey an order contrary to the law of God. . .”

Once more, my superior began speaking. “I need you to take care of someone for us.” My heart beat more quickly, a mix of anxiety and excitement pushing blood more rapidly through my veins. “We must move with haste, for this man is growing more dangerous as we speak. The details are all in here,” he stated, sliding a thin folder to me across his desk.

Understanding from his intense gaze that I was not to move until I fully understood and agreed to the documents, I opened the folder. Looking down, I met a set of eyes with the same intensity of the man sitting across from me. It was my target: Archbishop Romero.

The low voice in the corner continued, “I implore you, I beg you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression.”

I preferred that the radio was turned off on the road to La Capilla de la Divina Providencia. The clunk of the skinny case bouncing against the hard leather seats of the red Volkswagen captivated my attention.

I stared at the box, as if I could see through it to the preassembled contents inside. It was not as though I needed to examine that beautiful work of man inside the cushioned case—I knew every curve and crevice of the gun lying next to me.

“Estás listo?” The driver inquired to me, glancing in the rearview mirror. I looked up, staring at the mirror to examine the unfamiliar, bushy face of the man who had just interrupted me, and returned my gaze back to where it belonged.

It seemed like mere minutes when I heard the driver speak up again: “We are coming up on the location. I will circle the block several times when we reach the church so that you can scope out your position.” Holding my gaze, I moved my head up and down slightly to acknowledge his words. “Not much of a talker, I see,” he chuckled to himself.

As I shifted my eyes to the road in front of us, a tiny point on top of a building about a quarter mile from us grew larger, beginning to form the shape of a t. The shape’s size continued to increase, and my focus once more shifted to the case. I drew in a slow, full breath, and refocused on the church. Five seconds. That was all I needed to survey my target.

A few patients were walking to the neighboring hospital; the large, propped open door let in some sort of breeze for the sweaty congregation; the man in the purple robe spoke fervently in front of the altar.

I felt myself gently pushed toward the left, bumping into my case as we circled back to our desired spot. Reaching for my side, with a single click both snaps released and I finally eyed my trophy.

“Slow down when we reach the church. I’ll give the command to stop.”

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----My body lurched forward, hands gripped softly on the instrument as the vehicle now contained that ashy, accustomed aroma. Staring through the open door, the now faceless purple figure was still centered in the church, walking back to meet the marble table. The dim lighting blended nicely with

LAMBREQUIN the cloudy afternoon sky. No passerby was in sight.

My right hand began to crank the window quickly, and the gun’s scent started dissipating into the light breeze. I began my count.

“One . . .” I took a slow gulp of the balmy air as my fingers grew tighter on the gun.

“Two . . .” I started to raise the mechanical object, my finger sliding onto that small, powerful little piece of metal.

“Three . . .” A rush of control poured into my spirit, the barrel of the gun becoming one with my eyesight.

“Four . . .” The center of the purple figure became my sole focus, and I aligned my shot as though I could see his very heart.

“Five . . .”

Once more, I breathed in that familiar smell.

Part 4 Dead Voices March 30, 1980: Funeral of Archbishop Oscar Romero I couldn’t see the street for over a half mile— only a mass of crying, singing, motionless people.

About a quarter mile to my right was the group of men in white robes. A quarter mile to the left were the latecomers flowing in to catch a glimpse of the event. Below me was the group shouting throughout the service: “Down with the junta!”

“God bless Romero!”

“Praise revolution!”

“We need rebellion!”

I could faintly hear a speech being delivered by one of the robed men on the loudspeakers below, and I opened my ears to listen while my weapon steadied in my hands.

“We cannot love by hating. We cannot defend life by killing.”

I disengaged my ears, my attention now consumed by a particularly noisy shape below me who had been leading some chants against the JRG. ----Even before that awaited scent could surround me, I dropped behind the short wall of the rooftop as I listened to the sweet sound of panic I had just caused.

An explosion to my left rang through my ears, and I carefully pulled my head up over the wall to observe the spectacle. The corners of my face lifted slightly as I saw the crowd of shapes below me shoving, stumbling, and spinning around one another. To my left, the wall of smoke obstructed my eyesight, yet shouts and cries still permeated through the thick mass. To my far right, the men in robes were nowhere to be seen, and a black horde was streaming into the building with the large cross.

Yet something caught my eye as I scanned my work. To my right, a throng of unmoving people stood as though nothing had happened. I surveyed their faces—the faces of children, young adults, parents and grandparents. Their mouths moved in unison, yet only the sounds of panic below could penetrate my still-ringing ears. Grabbing my instrument, I added to the chorus of chaos once more, turning my gaze back to the faces on the right. Still, their bodies did not react.

Maintaining my gaze on this group, I let my weapon act as a beating drum, harmonizing with the confusion on the ground. Two of the taller figures in the pack collapsed to the ground. Yet the mouths of the standing continued to move rhythmically and more emphatically. I could now begin to hear the chants, “Somos el cuerpo de Cristo . . .”

I continued to pull in that powerful little piece of metal with my gloved finger, drowning out the chorus below for brief instants. Still, the singing returned, growing louder each time it came back. It was as if the voices of the dead had amplified those of the living.

After the gun could make no more effort to overcome the voices below, I slumped back below the wall. Why was I not in control? I rose to my feet and assumed the position of the man on the large cross to my right; indeed, I looked even mightier with the gun held firmly in my right hand. I was fully exposed for the people below to see who caused this terror. Yet the faces of the choir maintained their forward gaze, as if I was some invisible presence—as if I was no presence at all. I remained in this position for several minutes, waiting for one of the faces to twist my way.

Unable to hold my position any longer, I dropped my prized object to my side. As this esteemed possession clashed against the cement, the singing continued to pervade my ears and clutter my mind.

Then, with a long exhale, my eyes gravitated toward the door behind me as I planned to dissipate into the smoke below.

LIGGETT 2017

“I love you” / The lies we tell LINA TATE ‘18 // POETRY

Size doesn’t matter You don’t need makeup All men are created equal You’re all welcome here Freedom of Speech exists You’re all beautiful just the way you are Women and men are treated the same way Boys and Girls are raised the same Women have control of their bodies Beauty is on the inside You aren’t defined by the clothes you wear You can open up to me I care about you Trust me

8 5

The world isn’t filled with bad people Some of you are good people In fact, I have a great relationship with you I am a very nice person

SKULL MOSAIC

HOPE KULKA ‘19 // MOSAIC TILE

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

Being Black in America JASMINE DICKENS ‘17 // POETRY

Being black in America, what does it mean?

It means there are no chains round my feet, but I still am not free.

It means I’m systematically oppressed by an ongoing routine And although I’m clearly visible, my efforts are not seen.

The Bill of Rights applies to me yet everyday I have to fight to feel just as adequate as my peers who are white.

Jim Crow laws are no longer in existence but I could walk into a suburban establishment and still feel distant How? you ask. Well for instance, it takes at least an hour to be seated Or of course I could not receive service at all Because the waiter didn’t recall That the white couple he just seated were behind us in the hall Or I could go to the mall Minding my own business, shopping with good money Yet I’m a disturbance and escorted out by security.

Oh and let’s not forget police brutality that for years has proved to be the fatality of many young brothers and their liberality but of course we see no abnormality because our nation has been plagued with this mentality that these children were thugs of criminality— when in actuality, these cops let fear be the judge of their morality.

The question I ponder, what I constantly wonder , is after death, after my last breath, when will I get to rest from the oppression and the stress?

So my question for you is will you address the matter of distress, or allow the rights of blacks to completely digress?

6

Desolate PlanE

WILLIAM HIGBIE ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

7

LAMBREQUIN

To Exploration: A Fundamental Error TAMARA AJJOUR ‘17 // POETRY

A child can look up at The darkest sky and See animals and Hope—thriving off of The unknown and the uncertainty All around. But soon curiosity is Replaced with Theorems, graphs, proofs, Facts.

cherub

8 9

We search For concrete answers and Won’t settle for anything but The purest truth, like an icy Iron robot—determined and Graceless.

Little do we know that as we verify and Clarify we are losing Mystery and Tranquility and Glory and Awe.

KATRIEL TOLIN ‘19 // FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

LIGGETT 2017

When did it become about Knowing?

About dissecting every crevice Understanding every part Of every piece of Every single question and Sight and Sentiment analyzing why And who and How it is possible.

When did holding the reigns become More important than Wonder?

Can’t we just take a moment To take it all in?

WINTER

BROOKE HUDSON ‘19 // GRAPHITE & CHARCOAL

My Hair

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

LAURYN HOLLIDAY ‘18 // DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE “I have hair, you have hair, we all have hair.

You just have to deal with it and love it for what it is.”

Look of disgust/disbelief at what friend said My hair swells in humidity (touching hair).

It turns into an afro and gets really curly when it is wet; you call it a mess.

When I try to tame the shrew I call my hair, I just end up with another broken brush or comb in the shrine of lost soldiers of World War Hair. (image of broken combs/ brushes that say RIP)

10 11

What am I supposed to do with this hair (yelling at audience) that turns into Mufasa’s mane everytime I touch it?!

I call it a mess.

But you then go around and touch my hair like I’m an exotic animal at the petting zoo.

You ask what did I do because my hair is so big You ask how I get curls like this, or if that is my real hair. . .

News flash (waves both hands in air): my hair isn’t like yours!

But you still ask me?

My hair may be thicker than yours, it may have braids in it, it may have some weave in it too, it may be in a puff ball— but it is still my hair.

Kamea

HOPE KULKA ‘19 // ACRYLIC PAINT

I was given this hair.

Sometimes it’s a burden, but it’s still Mine I was raised to know that when it hurts to get your hair done, you suck it up and call it the pain of beauty.

But what is this beauty I am aiming for?

Is it the beauty society has given me?

(Slow images of starlets) Or the beauty that lies within me and my hair?

What beauty should I be seeking?

Should I go with the beauty of fame and fortune— or beauty of natural and authenticity?

In bathroom fixing hair Why should I have to choose?

Why can’t my curls, afro, braids, and twists be authentic and beautiful in society?

Why should I even care that society doesn’t see the greatness in my curls?

So who cares if I want to cut it fro it straighten it braid it twist it curl it or dye it?

I just have to keep loving it for what it is . . . (image of her friend, reminding her of what she said in beginning).

Love my hair when it takes three hours to straighten and then it rains outside (in bathroom putting it back to how it was).

Love when it takes a whole day to get braided.

Love when I break all the teeth of my combs and brushes trying to get through it.

Love because my hair is mine and no one can take that from me.

It is mine, and I can do whatever I want with it (walks out bathroom happy in natural state).

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

11:38 PM

1:47 AM

i feel safest when

Who is she?

KERI INGE-MARSHALL ‘19 // MIXED MEDIA COLLAGE

12 13

ABIGAIL

HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

no one knows my name or

you taste of silver

who i am or what i like

shining and brilliant,

and instead they’re

yet easily tarnished.

intimidated by me

let me be the one to polish you.

i can be whoever i want on

you taste of glass,

those sidewalks

often thick and impossibly strong,

when the wind turns my

sometimes thin and brittle.

cheeks red

it’s okay, let me mend you.

and whips my nose until it’s sore to the touch;

you taste of salt,

when blisters form on the

like tears at cursed hours,

calloused skin of my instep

and the ocean spray.

and Achilles himself is

let me be the one to calm you.

shot down from fame you taste of fear, then i can rise, illuminated

like how my pen quivers as i write this

by the halo of street lamps;

and when i think of you moving on.

leather against skin.

let me be the one to keep you.

and the danger is what feels most secure above all

ZAHRA KHAN ‘17 // POETRY

THE MOOR

LAMBREQUIN

MARY.

TEGAN JONES ‘18 // FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

RAILROAD TRACKS

REBECCA LOHMAN ‘17 // HAIKU Parallel we stay Living our lives every day Knowing we won’t cross

LIGGETT 2017

SASHA JOVANOVSKI ‘17 // FICTION You stand out on the moor. It is gray and heavy and the wind sings and the reeds whisper. It is immense, and you can see too far.

The moor is deserted, every living thing smothered by the rain. It has been raining for three days. It’s only stopped because the earth needs to breathe, though it seems to have forgotten how. The rain has sapped the moor of its color, its flesh—of any beauty it once had. It is one vast plain of emptiness, leading endlessly to the line under the sky.

If humans can see this far, then what is the point of birds?

This is the moor: it is low-rolling hills, thorns without flowers, and rocks older than time. It is the place where the hounds howl. Something happened out on the moor. There’s a secret out there, hiding. But you didn’t hear it from me.

It’s cold on the moor. You shiver as you behold the suffocating thing spread

14 15

thin before the horizon. The moor isn’t just cold— it’s cold-hearted. It lets you see, then takes away your eyes. Many an adventurer has lost an eye out on the moor. The moor keeps them all. It sticks them to the tips of branches, and leaves sprout from the pupils.

The moor wants to survive more than you do.

You’ve been standing still so long a vine has begun to reach for your ankles. You begin to walk.

The hills on the moor go up and down and up but the moor only goes down, down, down. On the moor, there is no proof. Hidden behind storm clouds, the sun circles overhead like a vulture. In a second you could dissolve into the white sky, or the ground could open up and take you. But it does no one any good to be frightened on the moor.

On the moor, the wind sings and the reeds whisper. They whisper about you. They whisper about the rain, until the thunder scares them off.

From across the hills you hear calls of yes, Mama;

ULTRAVIOLET

WILLIAM HIGBIE ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

EVan.

TRE CAINE ‘17 // FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

LAMBREQUIN

the moor: it lives, and it does not want to die.

Brambles and roots prod at your calves. They force you forward. They grow every second. The moor wants you inside. It wants to kill you, you think.

The house is looming and it only looms higher as the moor pulls you to its core. Yellow light from candles or oil emanates from somewhere above and the floor is carpeted in dead leaves, patterned like a Persian rug. The walls are getting closer. The girl laughs and it’s like a hundred others are laughing, too, from all different directions as the moor seizes your wrists and tears your skin.

Mama, she laughs, don’t be so horrid.

The moor loosens its grip.

Be kind, says the girl. We must be kind to our visitors.

Slowly, the thorns pry themselves from your flesh. The vines untwine from between your fingers and under your tongue. The moor lets you go, reluctant.

It wants nothing more than to rid itself of this filth, this scum with two eyes that leaves shattered bone in its wake. But the moor obeys.

Now there will be another one like me, says the moor’s daughter.

Wouldn’t you like that? Aren’t you glad you stopped?

The walls retreat.

But the air thickens.

It grows hotter and denser and louder and there is something up ahead that pulses and glows and you see it. You see it and you feel it and in that moment you know the moor—how it thinks and how it breathes and what it wants and where it drowned your father—like some great peace falling over you.

And the moor welcomes you with open arms.

This is the manor 16 and the manner of the moor: it lives and it does not want to die.

LAUREN MEREDITH ‘18 // FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

no, Mama. A girl’s voice. It begins to rain again. The rain stings. It has been raining for three days, and the ground has begun to sink and pull the outside inwards. There are graves out on the morgue, narrow alleys of cracked stone and lichen, and the earth is taking them all back.

Morgue? Did I say morgue? I meant moor.

Something crumbles under your foot and you jump away. The skull of a moorland pony, lost to the mire. The pieces of bone stick to the filth on your boots and they follow you across the hills, crunching with every step. Perhaps this pony will never leave you. Maybe you will let it see places it never dreamed of seeing. Especially after the moor took its eyes. All moorland ponies have sickly glass eyes. But the rain is swift, and the pony’s dream drifts away, bit by flaky bit.

You are nearing the end, now. You can feel it. You venture down one last hill, descending lower than the moor has yet taken you, into greater darkness than you have yet known. You cannot see so far as a bird anymore, which helps you to breathe. You can feel the moor’s envy—it, too, wants to breathe. But it is in its weakest moments. You tell yourself it needs you.

Expendable lives are the moor’s only true love.

No one bargains with the moor.

The core approach has begun. The moor doesn’t have a heart—it has a center. You force your way through the thicket, and something cries in your ear.

You brush it away, but it persists. The cold rain has been left behind, and now the air is thick and stale, lit by glowing fungi. Your clothes cling to your skin.

Sludge drips into your hair. You look up. There are stones and corpses cradled in the mud above your head. From somewhere within, you hear, Yes, Mama.

It echoes.

The girl is probably dead. Do you hear the way she says “mama”? Like she’s in a period drama.

Don’t bother.

You wish you had brought a lamp. On and beneath the moor, seeing is knowing. Until it isn’t.

There is a house in front of you.

It’s disgusting. It’s made of dirt and plants and parasites that are not parasitic by nature. It bleeds green water. Every single inch of it is soaked. It beats and it hums. This is the manor and the manner of

LIGGETT 2017

17 BELLA

LAMBREQUIN

Voodoo Doll

LIGGETT 2017

tEARS

GABY CAVATAIO ‘17 // POETRY Who to pick as my doll?

My enemy of course There is no better fit For the one with a cruel spirit Hair like yours, brittle and dry Eyes like yours, black as your heart Oops! I dropped it, Did that hurt?

Now how did you end up in the fish tank?

Can you breath?

No? Oh I am surprised, I thought you were Aquatic: Slimy Sticky Smelly Guess I was wrong.

I like to play catch with this doll Throw up high then Plummeting to the ground Oops! Hit the fan Looks like you won’t have A very long life span!

KALEI SLIWINSKI ‘20 // FICTION CASSIE ZENG ‘18 // CERAMICS HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

18 19

Tears. A symbol of cleansing but also sadness. Tears all around, in whatever aspect, are not fun. You cry and your makeup smudges. They fall and your face gets all red. Yeah, nobody likes tears.

Now, you may wonder, “Why is Author writing about tears? What does this have anything to do with the Story?” Because, dear reader, I am writing to describe what is happening right now.

At this moment in time, there is a girl crying. However, this crying is different: silent, guilty, terrified. This crying is sobbing because nobody can know what happens inside her head, what she plans to do.

So she stands in her nicest clothes, her hair done and her makeup simple yet flawless. She wants to be remembered, not forgotten, and what better way to be remembered than by looking your best, right?

Anyways, she stands in front of her mirror—her long, ornate mirror.

She observes her face, sees the tears flow, and thinks, “How have I not noticed how beautiful tears are?”

Ah yes. She’s delusional.

Let’s continue . . .

But no, she’s right.

Tears flow like a mighty river, a surging waterfall, a tranquil pond.

Appreciate the beauty of tears, reader, because you might not get this chance again.

She stands, tall and proud, and looks at herself. She is ready. Looking herself square in the eyes, she does the unthinkable, the terrifying thing that most people don’t dare to do: she dies.

And now I am tumbling, head over heels, screaming the whole way down, down, down into the black abyss that most associate with death.

BUT AUTHOR, YOU WROTE “I” INSTEAD OF “SHE!” Yes, reader, that’s the point. The girl in the story is indeed me, the girl you came to pity is your lovely author herself.

Oh, please, no tears. Tears are ugly, after all. I chose to die for one reason only: to tell this story to you, to tell this story to anyone who might hear and understand.

I love to tell stories you see.

And that’s just what this is. A story.

LAKESIDE

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

EMMA ST JOHN ‘17 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY I become lost deepest craters of Where I float in weightless as

in my

the mind.

the atmosphere, my essence.

Where my soul is clear of mistake and my body as ethereal as time itself.

Where all my eyes see is purity and nirvana springs from my fingertips in wild coteries.

Where I talk to created me and completely, utterly

everything that I am one with myself.

20 21

Where I am vulnerable to anything that may cross my path, enveloped in nothing but my components.

Dear Earth

I am the purest form of my being.

I am me. Hidden by no facade, masked by no emotion, free from obligation and expectation.

I

am

just

LINA TATE ‘18 // CREATIVE NONFICTION

me.

But whenever I open my eyes, I transform back in to my hollow carcass.

I am no longer one with the stars.

NIGHTS II

KERI INGE-MARSHALL ‘19 // PROSE POETRY

LILITH

JOVANA DJOKOVIC ‘17 // COLORED PENCIL, MARKER & GRAHITE

I’m sorry for your eternal suffering.

It’s always one thing after another, isn’t it?

I’m sorry that each day feels like the wind knocked out of you, again and again, and no matter how hard you try to get up, you find yourself down again.

Your water used be a mirror: picture clear and my features well defined. But as each toxic drop creeps into the sea, your once transparent shimmer fades to black. Now, my face is nowhere to be found.

Your land, once majestic, now bears scars and slashes, the poor attempts to cover up a murder, white floors scrubbed to remove the blood stains.

And yet, so easily, it is covered again, like a small child who spills their drink after you’ve just cleaned the floor. Except this drink poisons and is permanent.

Fires race across the land, like a piece of paper

meeting a match’s flame.

We have left your body bruised blue and purple; you look unrecognizable.

And how often we forget that this is the place we call home.

We cling to you, yet each day another rock drops into your already weighted pockets and you’re one step from tipping into the deep end.

I’m Sorry.

You stop for no one. For nothing. Even when desperate for a break.

You spin like a whirlwind, a typhoon, a globe spun reckless by an unknowing and careless child, faster and faster uninterrupted— regardless of our meaningless apologies, our repeated abuse, our selfish greed, our brutal betrayal.

LAMBREQUIN

PANTHERA LEO

OSCULA MANUM REGIS

LIGGETT 2017

AMANI TOLIN ‘17 // STAINED GLASS

LUCY ALPERT ‘17 // FICTION

The door slammed.

“How was it?”

“Good God woman, don’t pepper me with questions!”

Subdued momentarily, Lady Elizabeth Howard placed her hands on her husband’s shoulders. Thomas Boleyn dove into the great chair beside the fireplace and mantle. Elizabeth called for mulled wine.

“No. I need something stronger. You can’t imagine.”

The pair sat in silence, a wall of grief constructing around them.

“Oh God, it was awful. Worse than anything I’ve seen. Our George--” Thomas couldn’t continue. He sunk his head. Still clutching his shoulder, Elizabeth spoke.

“Did you visit Anne? Give her her necklace?”

“I wasn’t let in.” A single tear ran down Elizabeth’s blanched face. “Are you sure you want to know, Bess?”

“He’s my son. . . Yes.” He nodded. “Very well,” he gulped. “They read him his rights. And,” Thomas paused, not meeting Elizabeth’s eyes, “well, he died a good Christian.”

“My Georgie!” Her tears now shed unrestrained, catching on her velvet bodice. The droplets sparkling like the seed pearls that lined her hood.

She sniffled, “Was it quick?”

“Just one stroke.”

Thomas stared at the fire, eyes unseeing, but the gruesome images of the afternoon replayed in his head over and over.

Elizabeth’s cries then filled the room, her sounds of grief amplified by the harsh stone walls. She sank, kneeling at her husband’s feet, grasping his legs as if she were drowning. Silently Thomas removed Elizabeth’s French hood, one of her daughter’s favorites, and smoothed back her slick hair. “What have we done, Bess?”

She sank, kneeling at her husband’s feet, grasping his legs as if she were drowning. “What have we done?”

* * * As the sun rose mocking the Boleyn’s loss, Lady Elizabeth awoke calling for her lackey. “Send these garments to Queen--to my daughter Anne.”

“Yes m’lady.”

Thomas sat up in bed, eyes bloodshot restless from another sleepless night. His manservant reached over, proffering him his arm. “Good morning m’lord.”

“Is it?” Thomas’s stormy eyes silenced the response ready on the lips of his manservant. He dressed in silence.

Breakfast seemed to pass slowly. No one spoke.

“I can’t do this anymore!” Elizabeth stood, throwing her silver spoon down with a clatter. Thomas remained seated, undisturbed, viewing Elizabeth at a distance.

She headed toward the window staring out at the Thames and the Tower’s turrets piercing the blue sky. Thomas stood, marching over, willing himself onward. He grasped Elizabeth’s hands, embracing her.

“It will get easier.”

“Don’t touch me, Thomas! Just don’t.”

He dropped his hand, releasing her. * * * “I’ll go, Bess. Don’t put yourself through this.”

“Don’t call me Bess.” Thomas left, the door shutting with a soft click behind him.

“Come, boy. Head toward the castle.” As the Boleyn carriage pulled in, its wheels crunching and clacking over the cobblestone drive, Thomas readied himself. His footman opened the door, offering a hand for assistance. Thomas ignored him, lumbering past it, plastering a smile onto his face.

And there was King Henry VIII: seated at his throne, his thighs drooping over the edge of his chair, stuffing his face with more sweetmeats. Lady Jane Seymour was seated on his right, perched birdlike at his side, her gable hood obscuring her face and hiding her long blonde hair. “More wine for my beloved!”

Henry called out. Blushing, Lady Jane nodded in acceptance. Henry’s laughter boomed, echoing through the great hall.

Thomas walked in.

Henry saw him.

“Come, Sir Thomas!” Henry demanded.

Thomas walked on, he felt the nobles’ eyes following his movements, tracing his walk like a cat

22 23 watches a bird before it strikes, scanning his stride for weakness as he stepped toward the murderer’s throne.

Silent, Thomas approached, bending his knee so that it brushed the marble floor. His head lowering, bent swanlike as if over the executioner’s block.

Staring down, Thomas took Henry’s bejeweled hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. Released it and said, “Good evening, Majesty.”

“You may rise.” Thomas stood. “Now more dancing!” Henry shouted at the court’s bard. He took Jane on his arm and whirled into the center of the hall. * * * The door slammed shut.

“How was it?” she asked, eyes glaring, accusing.

“As one would expect,” he replied, averting Lady Elizabeth’s gaze. Her eyes were still red, bloodshot. “I just. . . I didn’t expect him to be so. . . so happy.”

“How’s Anne?”She asked with concern, though her eyes were daggers.

“No one but the King would speak to me. I do not know.”

“This is your fault, Thomas.” Elizabeth’s words

seared Thomas. “Your ambitions, not mine!”

“You don’t think I know that?!” He shouted, finally cracking. “You don’t think I know it’s as if I were up there swinging at George’s neck! I know, Elizabeth! I know.” His voice weakened, yet he continued, “Bess, I know what you have endured, but let me tell you what happened today. Today I have done what no man who has walked this earth has ever yet done; I have bowed down to and kissed the hand of the man who killed my son! I looked into Henry’s eyes and kissed his rings, embraced his calloused hands, watched him dance with another while Anne sits imprisoned. I know what’s been done.” Winded, he had nothing left.

Elizabeth looked up, her eyes glassy and face softer. “Why, Thomas? Why us?”

“I don’t know, Bess.”

Their hands reached out and entwined, staring unseeing onward, grief settling in. * * * “Beware, trust not in the vanity of the world or the flatterys [sic] of the court, or the favour and treacheries of fortune.”

-George Boleyn, scaffold speech

JASMINE DICKENS ‘17 // POETRY

LAMBREQUIN

MALINALLI

Cortes a name I both love and hate.

My source of light, my burdening weight.

I know his intentions and I’ve seen what he’s done; I want to leave but my legs do not run.

Mr. Homuth’s Latin Americna History class wrote poetry in response to their study of Cortes. As Mr. Homuth explains, Malinalli was the translator and lover of the infamous Conquistador Hernando Cortes. A woman of two worlds – native and European – she is often viewed as either the “Mother of Modern Mexico” or the “Betrayer of the Aztecs.”

How a man so evil sparks my attraction He is only human He is not his actions I want to show him my self, my beliefs— All he does is take.

I’ll never be free I’ll never be free from these mind games; I freeze as he cares—just a moment—then takes what he needs.

Can I be the one to change him?

Can I make him see?

Can I make him value my people?

Value me?

MADDIE FOZO ‘18 // POETRY

24 25

I am powerless as the tongue of two worlds as I hand my city to the enemy as I surrender my body to my master

Can I show him I’m a person, not just his toy?

Can I show him to build and nurture, not destroy?

like a butterfly, its wings soaked in blood like a wounded horse on the battlefield like my people, who have been sacrificed like my people, whose blood covers the ground of my world like my people: confused and scared

Can I make him happy?

Can I be his joy?

Or do I sound like the foolish woman people take me to be.

Yet Beneath this confusion, this fear: as the tongue of two worlds with words as weapons to war and fight back

I want to find my way, but that will take time Cortes is my love, but he isn’t mine.

DESPAIR

And then, my Cortes, My ruin I’ll share with you.

HOPE KULKA 19 // ACRYLIC PAINT, DIGITALLY ALTERED

I have no strength to leave, but I will have it soon: my god, Quetzalcoatl, will help me to bloom.

LIGGETT 2017

as the lady of Cortés as the souls of those killed in battle like fire fueling the minds of the enemy: full of power I am powerful

LAMBREQUIN

WONDERLAND

SASHA JOVANOVSKI ‘17 // FICTION The first thing Elisa sees coming into town is graffiti on the snow. It goes by too quickly for her to read.

“What did that say?” she asks the driver.

“What did what say?” he says. “Hey, d’you mind if I change it? Never been much for Christmas music, myself.”

That’s what’s playing? Elisa can barely tell through the static. “Go ahead.”

He fiddles with the dial, and the radio makes a noise straight out of The X-Files. More clusters of graffiti pass by, bright green and pink and orange against the dirty gray snow. Ice and salt crunch under the car’s tires.

“When did it last snow?” she asks.

“Couple days ago.”

“And the roads still aren’t clean?”

The driver laughs. “They’re never clean, ma’am.

We got three months of warm in this part of the world.”

The car rolls to a rocky halt for some passing snow geese. Elisa says, “Did you know animals have the right of way in India?”

“You been to India?” says the driver. “I’ve never even been to Maine.” He honks the horn, and a lingering goose scurries off the road.

“Especially cows,” she continues. “Cows are sacred in Hinduism.”

The driver glances at her in the mirror. “I think you’ll find a lot of folks up here aren’t so nice as that.”

Elisa doesn’t have a reply. She sits back in her seat and watches the trees and houses go by. The houses are old and far between. Some have garlands draped across the front door or decorations frozen to the porch. They stop at a stop sign whose pole is rusted and bent. Some of the white paint has been scratched away, so it reads art instead of arrêt.

“Clever, n’est-ce pas?” says the driver with a grin.

“Um—yeah,” she agrees. “But I don’t speak French.”

“I know,” he says. “The agency gives me all the ones that don’t.” He pauses.

“They tell me you’re awful smart, Miss Macalister.”

Elisa looks forward sharply, and he catches her eye in the mirror. He winks.

“Let me tell you something, Miss Macalister,” says the driver. “We don’t get a lot of your kind coming up here, the kind who want to do real work. So when you need something, you might not be able to ask around like you used to.”

The driver yields for a doe. She’s still a ways away, but even Elisa knows you don’t want to catch a deer in the headlights. To their left, there’s a house with wooden boards for windows. A pristine white blanket covers the roof and porch, and the surrounding grounds look smothered by the snow. There are two words spray-painted across the front window, scrawled in thin red letters: seek god.

The doe approaches the roadside, then turns away and runs back.

“Poor thing,” says the driver, shifting into first. The car protests, and the radio crackles.

“Even she’s afraid of that place.”

Elisa shivers. “Can’t say I blame her.”

“Aw, really? A scientist like you?”

“The power of suggestion isn’t to be reckoned with.”

He shrugs. “I s’pose you’re right.

The only thing worse than seeing the devil is

26 27

“The power of suggestion isn’t to be reckoned with.”

LIGGETT 2017 when you can’t see him no longer.”

The woman on the radio laughs at something. Elisa turns in her seat to look out the back window, but already the graffiti is too far away to be read. The doe is gone, too. When she turns back around, she catches her breath—the trees have dissipated, and up ahead is a lake.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” says the driver. “There’s a change of pace for you.

Almost there, now.”

“My house is out here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It hurts to look at. Everything is white and gray and black, like something sucked of life. A rowboat sits frozen in the lake, ice crawling up its hull like frostbite. Elisa can’t imagine the circumstances surrounding that particular misfortune. Suddenly there’s a bump in the road, and the car lurches and

DOWN THE WAVES

CJ MORRIS ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

LAMBREQUIN

stalls. Something in the passenger seat hits the floor with a thunk. A cell phone starts ringing.

“Whoops,” says the driver. “That yours?”

“Yeah,” she says, rooting around in her purse. She finds it and looks at the number on the screen. It’s the professor. “Hello?”

Static comes back to her.

“Hello?” she repeats and waits. “Oh, well.”

“Get used to it,” says the driver. “Hope you’re not long distance with anyone.”

Elisa is silent. She rubs her arm through her coat.

He glances over his shoulder at her.

“Private? My apologies.”

“It’s alright.”

“I run my mouth. The folks up here don’t much like that.” He starts changing stations. “Do they like that in India?”

“I’ve never been,” she admits.

The radio screeches, and Elisa winces— she’s found last week’s bruise on her arm—and

LIGGETT 2017

the driver smacks the off button.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Jeez, this old pile of junk is having a rough day. You alright, Miss Macalister?”

“I’m fine,” she says. She reminds herself of the place she’s in—bleak, white, far from home.

“You’re looking a little…”

They lock eyes in the mirror. The driver’s are dark brown.

“Never mind,” he says. “High time I learned to hold my tongue, don’t you think?” He shakes his head. “Bon sang. I don’t need to suggest anything, do I?” The air is cold and her bruise still hurts. But she won’t get any more.

28 29

the comet flashed across the sky brightening the air around her she felt her face and she came alive for a moment her breath hitched and she saw

THE COMET

VICTORIA ORTIZ ‘20 // POETRY

she saw the comet the only one in town looking up at that instant and she saw the beautiful comet dashing across the sky across her eyes and she came alive for a moment she saw the comet and made a wish for the first time in years and days she had seen past her own pain so she hoped for the comet for the courage it inspired the faith it restored and she understood what the comet meant

VICTIM

JOVANA DJOKAVIC ‘17 // PENCIL & INK

she did not need the comet for proof that it existed she had seen it and she knew someday it would come back

SUNNY BAUDELAIRE ABBY HUNG ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

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KOI

JANUS

KERI INGE-MARSHALL ‘19 // POETRY As time passed all I could hear was your voice, your laugh, I could find pieces of you in everywhere I went.

Your smile.

I’ve never seen something so bright and so pure. You light up the world as if rays of light just beam from you and reflect back onto your ambience. It’s as if your smile is the energy source that powers the entire universe.

Your laugh.

It’s like a soothing melody ringing in my ears for days to come and I can’t begin to describe it’s intimacy. It’s so full of purity and love in the simplest tense. If only you knew that the slightest bit of laughter can heal all of my wounds. It’s exhilarating. Fascinating.

Addicting even.

LIGGETT 2017

AMANI TOLIN ‘17 // GRAPHITE & COLORED PENCIL

30 31 REMEMBERING

MARIA EVOLA ‘20 // COLLAGE

ASTANA GAFFNEY ‘20 // FICTION

flipped

I’ve always been the black sheep in the flock of white ones, always the one to use my recess reading books rather than playing baseball in the lot besides the school with the other boys in my grade. Back then I would read about stories of Blackbeard and Sir Lancelot and imagine the waves crashing against my ship as I sailed to look for treasure. I would hear the clang of swords as I battled my next greatest foe in battle. Back in those days, life was much simpler.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still read about them. I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t reading about my personal heroes. However, life changes. I don’t know if it was for the better. It doesn’t feel like it.

Maybe it was, but I’m too blind to see it

* * * It all started in third grade. I was outside reading one of the stories about Lancelot they give to little kids—you know, the less-gory-and-dumbeddown version. That way I wouldn’t turn into a psychopath who wants to fight people with 12th century swords. Anyways, I was reading under a tree peacefully minding my own business, listening to the wind rustle the tree’s leaves and feeling the cool air against my cheek, when suddenly the class bully Claudius decided to pick on me. He just stormed up to me and decided I was going to be his next victim.

“Hey John, what ya reading?” he asked with a

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Then Claudius turned on his heel and left to tell all of his friends about how he had practically thrown one of the nerds into a seizure. Splayed on the ground and bawling my eyes out like someone had just told me my parents died in a plane crash and I was left homeless, I was startled to hear a voice behind me.

“Hey, are you okay?”

I jolted around and saw a boy around my age looking at me in concern. He had fair hair and a moderate complexion. His eyes looked concerned but far away. Glassy, but not in the sense that he was about to cry, just . . . a faraway feeling.

After what felt like an hour I managed to stutter a mess of jumbled words as hiccups interrupted my reply. “Y-yea I g-guess. He’s just a s-stupid bully.”

This strange boy looked at me and then back at Claudius, who was still laughing with his friends.

“Well, I think he’s just insecure. What’s your name?”

He looked at me like I was a puzzle he just couldn’t quite figure out.

I decided at that very moment that this would be my new best friend. This kid would be there for me thick and through, best pals forever. “John,” I said, still a little out of breath.

He looked back at me and smiled wholeheartedly, not the evil one Claudius gave me. “Buck” he said.

“The name’s Buck.”

And so it was decided that day that Buck and I would be the best of friends, like Calvin and Hobbes, James and Harvey. And for many years after that, we were.

* * * Throughout my life, Buck and I have had many adventures; in each one I’ve learned a different lesson. I remember way back in fifth grade, near the beginning of the year, my classmates and I were out for recess like normal—but today was different.

Claudius had most everyone in our grade gathered at one end of the field for some big competition. I decided to see what it was all about because, to be honest I had nothing better to do. Sometimes reallife adventure was better than what I read in my

books. I mean, it’s unlikely that I’m going to fight a dragon or find a hidden treasure, so I have to make due with what’s in my reach.

“Okay everyone, I have a ball and I’m going to see how far I can get it across the field. Anyone who can beat me gets my entire lunch,” explained Claudius. In the next instant he took the ball from under his arm, lined up his shot, and kicked the ball halfway across the field. I sat back and watched everyone kick the ball with hopes of getting whatever Claudius brought for lunch that day. It was sort of amusing: some kids stuck their tongue out in concentration while others made weird grunting noises. Most kicked the ball about a fourth of the length of the field, and some got close to Claudius, but no one beat him. I watched a bit longer, debating if I should give it a shot. I had nothing to lose, so why not?

As if reading my mind, Claudius cracked a joke about how I would probably miss the ball if I tried.

Everyone started cracking up at that, and I was left embarrassed and looking like a tomato. I was sure the other kids would jump right into insulting me, mainly wanting to please Claudius because he was the popular kid. Claudius was laughing so hard he dropped to his knees and the ball had bounced away... Right into Buck’s hands.

I looked at Buck, puzzled. I saw his mouth form what I thought were the words “watch me,” and then he set the ball down, took a few steps back, and ran at it with full force. His right foot connected perfectly, and the ball soared.

I watched in awe as it flew, creating a monster arch and landing directly across the field. Once again, I was impressed with my best friend who never ceased to amaze me. In the next instant, somehow I was given the ball from Buck who encouraged me to kick it. When people finally stopped laughing, I took my chance and tried to replicate exactly what Buck had showed me. I set the ball down, took a few steps back and eyed the ball, trying to figure out just where I needed to hit it. Still grinning, Claudius looked at what I was doing and decided that the entire grade laughing at me once wasn’t enough.

“Hey lazy foot, are you gonna hit the ball? Or just stare at it?” Another round of laughter erupted, but I was determined. I knew people were watching, so I decided to just do it. Running full force at damn ball, I kicked it so high it was almost better than Buck’s. Oh but it soared: just as high, and even more beautiful. Grinning like mad I watched everyone’s

mouth dropped as the ball flew past Claudius’s I know. Of course it’s cliche thatLIGGETT Claudius2017 was halfway point and hit the ground on the other side also at this camp, but it’s true. He seemed to always of the field. It was one of the best moments of my be standing in my way, a Goliath to my everyday life.

David.

Well actually, the lunch that day was better.

But back to the fight. When the counselors gave us each a weapon, I headed off to a secluded * * * area to “train” (that is, practice recreating cringe-y anime moves I saw online that would hopefully Time passed, and as I got older our relationship scare my opponents). One of the girls decided to grew stronger. We told each other secrets that only quit after five minutes, so I took her sword and gave we would ever know. I it to Buck. He was more can’t recall how many than happy to help me adventures we went on, practice.

We dueled just exploring the forest for hours, practicing behind my house or stances and lunges. I had skipping class and hiding always known Buck was from teachers. Sometimes athletic—unlike myself, Buck would tell me about who was as skinny as a his adventures sailing on twig and wore the biggest the ocean with his dad glasses on earth—but this or getting into a fights in day I realized just how his neighborhood with good he was at physical his arch nemesis, Draco. I activities. Buck’s hair was especially liked the stories messy and in his face he told where no matter when he got tired and how badly he beat Draco, sweaty, curling slightly. At he still came back for one point I had landed a another whooping. perfect parry to one of his But don’t get me attacks, but before I could wrong, I have great stories do much of anything else, of my own. In eighth grade I lost my balance and fell.

I liked this girl named Because Buck had Millie. We all went to the tripped me. same summer camp and When I looked up, I I wanted to date her, but I knew she only saw us as saw the blunt end of the wooden sword inches from friends. While little disheartening, Buck told me if the bridge of my nose. I turned my head to see Buck I gave her a reason to like her, she’d date me. I just grinning his signature sweet smile, messy hair in his wish I realized what he meant sooner. face. At that moment I was reminded of Sir Lancelot Anyways, it was around the middle of summer and his knights of the round table. He stood proud and the camp was buzzing with excitement. That and tall but with that faraway look, like he wasn’t day was the annual sword-fighting contest. Yes, you quite in the moment. heard me right. They gave wooden swords to wild, “Remember,” he told me, “sometimes you have angsty kids who would probably kill each other if to play a little dirty if you want to win at something they got the chance. equally dirty.” I knew I was ready to win, so when It was always an exciting day. the counselors blew the whistle to announce the This day, though, I wanted to win and prove to start of the tournament, I walked to the arena with Millie that I was worthy enough to date her. Only confidence. problem was that Claudius was in the competition During the event I faced a lot of kids, some as well, and if he won, I’d have to say goodbye to any small and some big. I faced girls and boys of different chances I had with Millie. skill, but I managed to make it to the last round. I

32 33

At that moment I was reminded of Sir Lancelot and his knights of the round table. He stood proud and tall but with a faraway look, like he wasn’t quite in the moment.

Buck always came with me, and I loved him for it.

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was almost certain I was going to win when I saw who I was up against.

Claudius.

As he snarled a wolfish grin and made an L with his hands, I knew I was done for. I mean, how stupid could I be to think I was going to beat him? But then I looked off to the sidelines and saw Buck with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and giving two thumbs up. Claudius spun his sword in his hands and looked at me with fire in his eyes. “You’re going down puny boy!” he mocked.

That was all it took before I charged at him ready to claim victory. Of course it wasn’t that easy, it never was. Out of all the fights ours took the longest. I was growing tired and running out of breathe. The other kids were starting to look bored but I could see Millie was still attentively watching us, as if saying whoever won would be her next boyfriend. Suddenly my sword crashed with Claudius’s, our bodies coming close. “When I win, the girl will be mine.” taunted Claudius. That did it. I was raging with anger, I mean how dare he? So I decided to use the advice Buck gave me and, just like him, I played dirty.

I tripped Claudius the next moment, and he staggered backwards, losing his balance. I took that moment to win by hitting him in the chest, showing my victory. I’m pretty sure tripping people is against the rules, but since our battle had gone on so long I don’t think anyone cared anymore. Suddenly I felt a warm hug behind me and a small giggle as Millie came to congratulate me. I watched Claudius walk away, grumbling in defeat. I thanked Millie and we opted to go down to the creek to talk about our day.

While walking down I saw at the sidelines was Buck sporting his sweet smile and giving me two thumbs up.

there. Surprisingly, I did get invited to parties. Maybe it was because I had moved to another school, from Minnesota all the way to California. I wasn’t popular at the new school, but I wasn’t constantly harassed.

Miserable at first, I started to not mind the move when I learned Buck was coming with me. Buck always came with me, and I loved him for it.

It was one of those rich kid parties where they have a yacht and somehow you get invited because you knew the guy hosting. I got invited because I had helped this kid Daniel with his homework; I guess he felt bad I was a loner, so he invited me to his party.

Buck went with me of course. I’m not too good with crowds, so I begged him to come with me in case I got a panic attack. When we got there I said hi to a few people but decided to hang back. Most of the partying was in the back, and I stayed at the front with Buck. I didn’t like to drink, and Buck didn’t either, but today he said he’d be the designated driver, so I guess... why not.

It was about six when we headed out to sea on this guy’s dad’s boat. Describing Buck as excited was an understatement; he was ecstatic, I mean practically falling overboard. Buck always told me he wanted to sail the ocean when he was older, he just hadn’t gotten a ton of chances. Settling down in the chair, I watched the sunset and listened to muffled laughters. Buck was at the front of the boat, standing wide as he looked over the vast horizon. In that moment he looked just like Blackbeard from the stories I read as a child: his hair—swaying with the wind—and sharp jaw made him look tough, even dangerous. His blue eyes still held that faraway look, as if he wasn’t quite listening even though he always, always was.

I walked over to him and leaned against the boat’s railing, then looked down at the choppy water and back up to my friend. His eyes, deep blue, looked just like the waves, full of mystery of what lies beneath them.

“What do you want to do when you graduate?” he asked.

I shrugged, not really knowing what to answer.

“I dunno, maybe a writer. But my parents want me * * * to be a lawyer or a doctor. Ya know, something with money.”

To be completely honest, high school wasn’t He gave me a long hard look, as if trying to stare much better than middle school. right through me. “You do it bro!” he exclaimed. “You Except for parties; I loved parties. Well, actually do it! Follow your dreams, because following them I liked the idea of being invited, not really being is the only way you get anywhere in this world.” I

was almost taken back at his words, his knowledge seemingly surpassing his age. After awhile he said, “I was thinking about being a sailor, then I thought maybe a marine.”

I thought about it for a moment, pondering what he said. “You’d make a great marine. Hell, you’d be an officer or something!” I didn’t know much about the marines, but I wanted to be there for my best friend. “Truthfully I just want an adventure,” he told me. I always knew Buck wasn’t meant to stay in one place forever; he wanted to travel. * * * A few years passed and we both grew. I was not really the social outcast I had been while younger, but I still didn’t like people a whole lot.

Buck, however, was a different story: he was everywhere.

Nearing the end of our senior year he started traveling more: Europe, Cuba, Jamaica. I saw him less and less, but that was okay. I didn’t mind. Sure I missed him, but I knew he was going and doing what he loved.

I, on the other hand, was in my second year of college. I had an internship working at a local publishing company. My parents weren’t thrilled at first, but they knew I was doing what I loved.

I got the news that Buck was going on a cruise to Italy. I was happy for him. I don’t know how he got the money for it, but he did. He offered to bring me along, but I told him I had work and classes and that he should be studying to be a marine, not going on a cruise.

I should have said yes. I should have gone with him on the cruise, laughing and embracing life and being present in the moment.

Buck, when I told him to study, just laughed and told me to quit worrying.

It was a few weeks later I heard.

The cruise had hit something and was damaged.

The ship sunk; many people died, including Buck.

Buck drowned, taken by the water he so loved.

At first I was distraught, a depression enveloping me. I had lost my best friend and didn’t even say goodbye. For the first few months I cried myself to sleep every night. My parents tried to understand, but they couldn’t. I don’t think anyone knew just how much Buck meant to me. He was so much more than a best friend.

34 35

LIGGETT As time moved on, I slowly began to as well. 2017 I got a real job at the publishing company, and my college grades were all A’s. My parents were proud and, for the first time in my life, things were going exactly how they needed to—even if I lost my best friend.

For the first time in my life, I was finally at ease with myself.

Maybe I didn’t need Buck by my side.

I would always have him in my memories, and I would always remember the wise words he told me.

I would always remember his blue eyes that looked like the waves in an ocean, his figure like a noble knight at the round table. He changed my life for the better, and I will never forget him.

I should have said yes. I should have gone with him on the cruise, laughing and embracing life and being present in the moment.

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

3:31 aM

ZAHRA KHAN ‘17 // POETRY i am a porcelain doll venetian cracks stylized to meet your disfigured vision of beauty ((even my blood-stained lips still aren’t red enough for you)) you look at me in those portraits hung proudly above a dust-ridden mantlepiece;

32 33

there’s soot in my lungs and the chipped paint of my skin

PORCELAIN FACE

LAUREN PORTER ‘18 // WATERCOLOR

cracks with every lie i utter, a plague of words to infect and devour anything so misfortunate to be caught in them i am dancing to the sweet timbre of a music box, each step i take more delicate than you ever were with me

THE BURST

BEAT GENERATION LANEY SHEEHAN ‘18 // MIXED MEDIA

MAX WIEGEL ‘20 // CREATIVE NONFICTION Written in response to David Sedaris’ personal narrative “Remembering My Childhood on the Continent of Africa”

bowel movements recently—well, you tend to think of rather imaginative scenarios.

Then the door opened: the moment of truth! is what I would have thought if I was more lucid, something I clearly wasn’t in my current state.

“Hmnah” was all I could manage to say or think at this point. As silhouettes of people emerged, I couldn’t tell whether or not it was all a dream. The people were real, but in that half-concussed state, I truly could not tell.

Shock wasn’t an emotion I often felt. I hadn’t experienced any sudden events of a great magnitude before. So when I awoke in a dark room, silent save for the occasional beep and the murmur of hushed voices, my reeling mind thought I was either a) dead, b) a machine, or c) in a hospital. Reminiscing on this now makes those thoughts foolish, but when you’re a ten-year-old child brought up with a large emphasis on thinking for yourself who felt extreme pain, lost So people were in my room. Who they were? I control of your entire left side, and had uncontrolled wasn’t quite sure. If I was now a machine, then maybe

LAMBREQUIN

these were scientists. But if so, why weren’t they in lab coats? No, I couldn’t be a machine. Whew, I thought groggily to myself. I think it was then that people started talking. I don’t remember WHAT it is they spoke, but I do know that they did. I think I spoke to them also, but I’m not certain. The world was just of varying shades of white to black, punctuated with the occasional burst of sound.

I do know, though, that my parents were there, which definitely calmed whichever parts of my mind were lucid enough to be frightened.

But why? Of course all children trust their parents, but I am particularly comforted by their presence. Let me explain with a backstory.

I grew up in a nice neighborhood as a young child, but at that time in my life, I was somewhat of a loner at school. I was always in that “one group” of people: those who couldn’t fit into the all-encompassing mold of the suburban child.

But I always knew that even if I was to experience a terrible day at school, where I would be excluded from everything, at home there was always that reliable statue I could cling to that comforted me.

So when I saw (or was it heard?) my parents, I felt safer. I felt happier. I felt . . . normal.

Of course, these were ideas that weren’t prevalent throughout my mind in that current state, but they were there, lurking in a not malevolent manner in the depths of my mind. Eventually, my parents went away, but I knew I was going to be fine because they had been there. So as I drifted off into the limbo that is the dream, I knew I was going to be fine.

my reeling mind thought I was either a) dead, b) a machine, or c) in a hospital.

LIGGETT 2017

Hmph.

Let me rephrase: I thought I knew I was going to be fine.

To be fair, this experience probably has my own imagination sprinkled in to fill out the memory gaps, like tar on an old crumbling road: both are mainly intact, the majority of each legitimate. Yet for each to be complete, “repairs” must be made.

Truthfully, I now approach this event in ways similar to how David Sedaris discusses his partner’s memories: there for the taking, like loose change left on a dresser. Does this mean I’m a bit more comedic? Maybe. Does this mean I am a liar? Well... yes and no. Yes, I am a liar, because not everything I say happened actually, well, happened.

But at the same time . . . I’m not.

34 35

Allow me to explain.

Let me present a scenario. A boy says he sails to his friends on a farm. This boy continues to say this to new people he meets throughout his life. Well, what if this boy, because he has said this so many times, actually begins to believe his own tale and fit into this role subconsciously?

I have shared the same story with everyone I’ve met who’s asked to hear about my experience. And I’ve said this story so many times that I now actually fit into how I’ve presented myself in the story.

No, I haven’t told any tall tales, but I have said a not-completely-true story to everyone who’s asked. I always made myself out to be a calm person who took what happened to him in stride. Of course, I probably wasn’t so calm in dealing with those events.

How could any person be? However, after saying this story in this way, I have become the tiniest bit braver. I do think about this experience calmly; I remember myself as calm.

Could I then be lying? No; not if how I remember the story has actually, tangibly, changed me into the person in the story.

So indeed I changed from the experience. I became the lie I told and turned a story into a truth. Stories are, after all, closer to reality than cold facts. Every story changes us in some way. My story changed me drastically.

Has it had any impact on you?

Hmm?

EXPLOSION

MASON CAMPAU ‘18 // MIXED MEDIA

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LIGGETT 2017

SODAPOP

KATRIEL TOLIN ‘19 // SHORT STORY Every Friday after elementary school my dad took my little sister, Maisie, and me to a soda shop. Mitchell’s, we called it.

Named after the owner, James Mitchell, a known recluse in our community, but he sure did know how whip up a drink. His specialty: grape sodapop.

It was pure magic, a potion from the master of wizards. It tasted like hard candies melted down into bubbly, sugary goodness.

It was fresh and fizzy and provoked feelings of joy and youth. And somehow he managed to make it taste even more like grapes than the actual fruit.

Mitchell’s was always busiest on Friday when he made a new round of soda. The smell cut through the thick air and penetrated the entire city, luring people from all over.

Everyone crowded in the small dining area while Mitchell stayed in the kitchen until the drinks were made to his satisfaction.

No one could watch. No one could talk. All we could do was wait for him to walk out smiling nervously and holding trays of soda while everyone applauded. He always served Maisie first. It made her smile.

The last time Mitchell made his grape sodapop was on the last day of high school.

My friends and I stood outside looking through the windows because it wasn’t cool to go in. Maisie was there though, sitting with her middle school friends. I watched them braid each other’s hair while everyone else trembled with anticipation. When Mitchell finally came out carrying the soda, the crowd cheered louder than ever before. Girls hit their silverware together. Boys stomped their feet. Men whoop-whooped. And women snapped. Mitchell stood, humble, and waited for the uproar to die down. He served Maisie first. She smiled, like always.

36 37

cotton candy paradise

NATALIA ALIAHMAD ‘17 // GLASS

IVY MERAW ‘17 // PEN & INK

When Mitchell’s closed down the neighborhood closed down. People moved away. Families left. Big companies started buying all the abandoned homes to make apartment buildings. Younger people moved in. It wasn’t the same.

Sometimes I like to go back and visit where Mitchell’s used to stand. It’s a coffee shop now. But if you try hard enough, you can still smell the grape sodapop.

trumpet

WICKED GREEN GLASS CUP

CHELCIE WALLER ‘17 // ACRYLIC

LAMBREQUIN

blind self-portrait BEA BERNARD ‘19 // PEN & INK

Early that day the sun began to beat down on the dry cracked ground. Large patches of green-brown grass grew at random points around the barren land. A single airplane whirred in the sky, floating 13,000 ft. above the largest green patch in the desert. Birds flying below the plane felt a slight breeze. But it was getting even windier around the plane as well.

She was doing a final check of her gear before the jump.

Are you ready to go? Don’t forget to check your chest buckles! he said. This is critical.

She kept on checking her gear.

Lets hurry! I want to get jumping! He began screaming over the wind that was blowing. You’re having trouble with the buckle aren’t you?

She clipped her final buckle then looked at him and gave a thumbs-up.

He did a final check of his own gear and mimicked her hand signal back towards her.

Lets jump, he said.

I’m nervous but ready, she said.

He did not answer. He looked out of the plane, leaned back, took a deep breath before giving a final smile. Then he went out of the plane.

She stood frozen on the platform, finally jumping after him into the open sky. He spread his arms to slow his descent, while she nosedived to meet him in the air.

We open our parachutes in about a minute and fifteen seconds, he yelled.

Is that all the time we have?

Yes, any later and we won’t fall correctly.

Get the strap on your shoulder ready.

Uh-huh, she yelled, locating the correct strap on her vest.

The wind had been howling around them and the two divers glided pointing their feet towards the ground.

It’s been a minute.

Pull!

She pulled on her strap. Oh God! She said.

She looked towards the ground.

Wait!

Pull your strap already!

It’s stuck!

She readjusted then pulled hard on the strap.

Check if it’s twisted, he yelled.

It won’t budge, it won’t budge! She cried.

The wind scratched their faces and refused to cease. In the struggle neither diver deployed their chute.

He came as close to her as he could, trying to pinpoint the issue with her vest. He wasn’t close enough to see the problem.

Try pulling the strap above it to the right, he yelled.

No, she said. What if it’s the wrong one, she yelled.

38 39 THEODORE WUJEK ‘17 // GRAPHIETE

EMMA STREBERGER ‘17 // FICTION

modeled after Raymond Carver’s “Popular Mechanics”

PILOT

. . the matter was decided

LIGGETT 2017

I should have pulled mine by now, he yelled.

The ground was growing closer. With the dry ground in view, one diver fumbled to pull their strap while the other searched for the correct one.

A string was finally pulled. A whoosh was heard and a single billowing white parachute poured open in the sky. Next to it a dark streak plummeted much quicker towards the earth. Ah! She screamed, her eyes closed, not wanting to see. The plummeting figure grew smaller as it came closer to the earth. The diver safely in the air pulled their hands up in front of their eyes.

Finally, when both divers were at the ground, the matter was decided.

LAMBREQUIN

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s “Crossing the Brooklyn Ferry”

1.

Borders of Michigan behind me! It won’t be long!

The Clouds are dark—probably rain and smog—because it’s Ohio.

Drab post-industrialism and cornfields, I pass them quickly.

On the long expanse of road, people coming and going are strange to this Michigander.

And when I travel south, I realize in my pensive thought how close college is.

2.

The leaves are red. The leaves are green and brown all day now. The sign to Kenyon is like All the other colleges I’ve seen. Still, it is new to me.

Anxiety builds as I think about the future and what I will leave behind.

The school days with GPAs, SATs, and ACTs all come together with the memories.

College rushes me forward all too fast.

Fifty years later people will see the gate again and again.

A hundred years later others will see these gates too.

And the gates will always reflect back onto people’s crossing.

3.

As I walk through and consider everything, All I can think is ‘Oh how I hate Ohio State’ Yes, I still am considering pretty seriously if I want to go the college that promises writers fame.

Who am I to know what’s best for the future?

Who knows if I’ll enjoy this?

Who knows if when I’m done, I’ll be a successful prig like dear John Green?

4.

Gorgeous foliage in the sunset! Give beauty and inspiration to all including me.

Students like me cross the threshold and begin to close another door As they check out of the Kenyon Inn After two days of exploring the hills! the halls! the halls on the hills!

Appearances and Alumni now or later indicate what you are, Kenyon, who art in Ohio, is but one of many intending to shape the mind.

Thy gates I come. I will be done with high school, thus beginning college.

And lead us not into debt, But deliver us towards the brightest career path Now and at the hour of our graduation.

So I come back home knowing a lot more.

Large or small, college is the threshold most of us cross.

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WHEN WILL I BE SKINNY ENOUGH

ALISON LILLA ‘17 // POETRY

CASSIE ZHENG ‘18 // WATERCOLOR

COLLEGE GATES

LIGGETT 2017

FROM DARKNESS. . .

LAMBREQUIN

. . . INTO LIGHT

LIGGETT 2017

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unspoken

MADELEINE WUJEK ‘19 // FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

TATI

HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

“don’t forget to bring a sweater!”

LAMBREQUIN

LUCY ALPERT ‘17 // POETRY

My Eyes have scanned pages

LIGGETT 2017

from right to left Hands held prayer books baruch atah adonai Lips kissed the Torah and tasted Shabbos wine Schlep, schmuck, and schmutz all words of my childhood and tongues forming balagan, bagel, bupkis.

Full of chutzpah stuffed with challah and still eating hamantaschen. schmoozing at onegs having a nosh.

Yes, I’m more Jewish than gefilte fish or lox and overbearing, hypochondriac, oy veying Moms.

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it’s the little things: KAITLYN LEE ‘19 // PROSE POETRY

confided

CHELCIE WALLER ‘17 // ACRYLIC

the way her hair falls down her back, the way he smiles, eyes bright and teeth gleaming the way he fiddles with his fingers, the way she blushes and ducks her head down, cheeks flushed the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, his eyes twinkle when he laughs or the way she sits and the way he stands her dimples come out when she smiles and she stares into the distance, quiet and soft, when she doesn’t he laughs, head thrown back with joy in his eyes she plays the violin, the sounds meeting wrapping together in the air with breathtaking results he plays the piano, fingers flying over the keys

it’s when she gets passionate, hair flying and eyes wild the way he holds conversations with people, eyes unblinking and completely focused. and he speaks when upset, eyes hard and tone clipped. she comforts her friends with a hug and soft, soothing words. he sings, voice full and emotion-filled she dances, her movements passionate and sharp her eyes soften and the fond look he has for the people he loves it’s the people they are it’s the little things

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

ROLLING (a writer’s statement)

from them?”

One of the Pears looked at her with confusion, “What? I haven’t heard anything, what happened to them?”

“They haven’t delivered my invitation yet and I heard that the spring tea party was supposed to be tomorrow. I know that they have a lot on their plate at this time of the year, but they’re not normally this late… I’m just worried about them.”

The Oranges and the Pears looked at each other. They seemed to look concerned. After a couple awkward minutes of them mouthing words to each other and glancing back and forth between each other and Plum, the Pear finally replied, “Plum . . .

ANNABEL ROMANELLI ‘18 // CREATIVE NONFICTION

In a place not so different than any other place, there was an orchard. This orchard was run by a family, passed down from generation to generation for many years. Surrounding the orchard were trees, a stream, and a hill. There was nothing too odd about the trees or the stream; they were just trees with leaves and a stream with water. However, the hill was different from the trees and the stream for one reason. That reason was the single tree that grew at the very top. On this tree were many fruits: apples, oranges, peaches, pears, and lemons. And these fruits were lonely. Why did they have to live so far from the rest of the fruits down in the orchard? So in an effort to avoid feeling lonely, the fruits held seasonal celebrations with each other. The Oranges and Pears hosted the spring tea party, the Peaches and Lemons were in charge of the summer picnic, The Apples hosted the autumn potluck, and all of the fruits gathered together to keep warm and share stories during the winter.

This neighborhood community system that the fruits had built for themselves was pretty effective for everybody except for one particular fruit. This fruit was called Plum, who was the only one of her type to live on that tree, which naturally set her up to be disconnected from the rest of the fruits. She kind of resented them because they had all paired off so nicely for each season and got along so well with each other so naturally.

Usually when she received her invitation for the seasonal parties, she threw it away as soon as the messenger bee put it in her mail box. Then she’d stomp off and cross her arms and plop down in her chair and feel angry for the rest of the day. She was aware that the rest of the fruits only invited her out of pity and that they looked down on her because she couldn’t host a seasonal celebration all by herself. She just felt like the whole thing was fake and forced instead of mutual enjoyment of each other’s presence.

As this year’s spring tea party approached, Plum anxiously waited for her invitation to arrive. She had decided to leave her bitterness in the past and to make more of an effort in getting along with the rest

her eye. Her old journals. She took one off the shelf and opened it up to the first page. June, six years ago. She started reading and, as soon as she finished the first page, she was hooked. She read and read and read, cringing at all of the cringe-worthy things she had written, laughing at her younger self, even crying with her younger self. She was astounded at how much of her past self was saved because of these notebooks. Things from the way she spoke to the things she cared about; it was all on the pages.

She wrote everything in just enough detail to jog her memory. She could almost relive each scenario and rethink each thought through the mind of her old self.

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of the fruits. They were all on the same tree together no matter how much she crossed her arms and huffed about it. And what better way to do that than to talk to her neighbors at the seasonal celebrations!

Plum waited and waited, but there was no sign of an invitation or a messenger bee. She shrugged and dismissed it as a mere mistake of the messenger bees. She knew that they had lots of responsibilities, especially at this time of the year with all the blooming flowers and the pollen to collect from them. They were always pretty prompt though and invitations were normally delivered about a week before the celebration was supposed to take place and Plum had heard that the party was supposed to be next week. She waited anxiously for the next couple days, but when she’d been waiting for a week, she began to get worried. What if something had happened to the messenger bees? After two more hours of waiting and stressing out about the messenger bees, she decided to head on over to the Oranges and the Pears.

“Oh, hello Plum. How are you?” asked one of the Oranges.

Plum replied, “I’m alright, I’m just concerned about the messenger bees. Have you heard anything

I’m sorry but we didn’t send you an invitation. It’s just that you never went to any of the celebrations anyway and we figured that you wouldn’t go to this one either so we didn’t want to waste paper and the messenger bees’ time.”

Plum stood and thought about what had just been said. It made sense. She hadn’t gone to any of the celebrations for almost five years now. She quickly thanked them for clearing up her confusion and then went back to her home. She made herself a cup of tea and then sat down in her chair and tried to think about things. Things like her past actions, her relationship with her neighbors, if she even liked being part of this tree’s community. The funny thing was that nothing seemed to happen in her brain.

All she could think of was that they didn’t send her an invitation because she hadn’t gone to any of the parties for four years. She couldn’t feel angry or sad or even relieved. There were too many undefined thoughts floating around in her mind for her to sort out.

She looked up from her cup of tea and looked around her home. One spot on her bookshelf caught

When she had finished reading every last one of the pages, she looked up and took a deep breath.

She had forgotten how much she enjoyed writing in her journals. She got up and grabbed a pen. She flipped the journal page over to a clean side and put the that day’s date at the top. She wrote and wrote and wrote until her jumble of things in her mind became coherent thoughts on the page. She put her pen down and closed the notebook and massaged her achy hand. She took the last sip of her tea, which had long since gone cold, and went to bed.

THE EYES HAVE IT LAUREN PORTER ‘18 // WATERCOLOR

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

SKY BLUE

REBECCA LOHMAN ‘17 // POETRY it’s the sweet sugary air of the local fair from my favorite colored cotton candy and visible in the morning sky clear but full of hope then quickly covered with the day’s angst and clouds but still the memory that it was there like

coolness in the autumn air a breeze across the sky-colored sea encompassing me fresh air fills my lungs and I feel relief seeing the sky blue

JACKSON

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SEAN DETLOFF ‘18 // DIGITAL COLLAGE

REBECCA LOHMAN ‘17 // POETRY

LOST BEYOND THE SKIES

BLUE SKIES ARE ALL I SEE

HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

I prefer to be in space Where my mind can Wander and think Beyond its limitation; Where my mind can Challenge the beliefs Presented to me.

I prefer to go beyond.

In a universe that contains Different galaxies, planets And unidentified objects, Maybe nothing is outside The realm of possibility.

Our understanding of Space is only a fraction Of the endless Opportunities beyond

The blanket of stars And the limitless Expansion of darkness.

Our narrow-minded Thought process Inhibits our ability To think Beyond the skies; To pursue The possibilities past our eyes; To imagine What the galaxy has in store When the skies speak And the stars shimmer.

BELIEVE

IN

YOURSELF

SABRINA MALKOUN ‘18 // POETRY

LAMBREQUIN

Or you’ll run into rude kids who live down your street.

Maybe you’ll have to wake up at six in the morning, But still be late to class and receive a warning.

Maybe someone will make fun of you because you’re not the same, And others will call you demeaning names.

But I can promise you that these four years will pass by, And you won’t feel the pain and stress anymore--you won’t cry.

When you go to college and get out of high school, You’ll look back and wonder, “Why did I let that bother me? I must have been a fool.”

They say that high school years are the best, But I think it feels like a huge contest: It’s competition such as who can get whom, And eventually, it can torment you.

But if there is anything to learn from these four years, It’s to be yourself regardless of who sees or hears: Laugh out loud, Stray from the crowd.

Dye your hair, And let your music blare.

Though these paper cuts feels like gashes now, I assure you that they will heal somehow.

Some people are cruel and that won’t go away, and I can’t make it better with any cliché: “Take it day by day!”

Or “Don’t worry it will all be okay!”

The reality is it hurts, and you’re allowed to feel the pain.

But don’t let it lock up your heart with chains.

Go to prom and dance like you are alone in an empty town.

Who cares if you look like a clown?

After all, in a few years, it won’t matter who sees, So try to have a good time with all that you do, please.

Be yourself and do what you want Because no matter your age, people will always judge and taunt.

Have a good time and cherish your friends Because that’s what you’ll remember in the end.

The sooner you learn this, the better you’ll feel And you’ll realize that these little things aren’t such a big deal: Maybe you’ll get more homework than you’re able to complete,

LIGGETT 2017

50 51

Keep pushing through because it’s only four years, And you’ll forget all the wounding words that you heard with your ears, And you’ll forget the sour salt you tasted from your tears, And you’ll forget the things that initiated your fears But don’t forget all that you are Don’t forget that you have come so far, Don’t forget that you have grown from the pain, Don’t forget the knowledge you have gained.

People may look like you, talk like you, and dress like you, But no one can be identical to all that you are and do.

Look at it the other way around: what’s the point of fakin’?

Be you, because everyone else is taken.

Now it may not be an easy task to do, So let me share this powerful quote by Dr. Seuss with you: ““Do what you want, and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

No more acting, no more faking: Only the real you in the making.

Laugh out loud, Stray from the crowd.

Dye your hair, And let your music blare.

BOOM

HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

NATALIA ALIAHMED ‘17 // GLASS

GLASS PAPERWEIGHTS

LIGGETT 2017 LAMBREQUIN

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FOR HER SENIOR ACADEMIC RESEARCH PROJECT, NATALIA WORKED WITH BLOWING GLASS AT THE DEARBORN GLASS ACADEMY

LAMBREQUIN

HOTBOXNYC

CHRISTIAN ILITCH ‘18 // POETRY

LIGGETT 2017

i’msostickyrightnow, honey this place is a hive swarming buzzzzzzz

lungs fearing the next breath which way out? rising

human gnats clip clop the beat of the street cold iron hooves searing asphalt making impressions steam rising off road manure nose burns

mercury red red hydrant ahead relief fills the streets not . . . so . . . sticky . . . now

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up above

WILLIAM HIGBIE ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

LIGGETT 2017

LUCY BARNOWSKE ‘19 // COLLAGE

To Bee or Not to Bee

LAMBREQUIN

CASSIE ZENG ‘18 // POETRY

56 57 LUCY ALPERT ‘17 // POETRY

Oh, how I detest poetry So awful it won’t leave me be.

Full of words and rhyme It fills my class time Leaving me hurt and unhappy.

Shakespeare wrote love sonnets and plays I’m stuck reading these in a daze.

And line after line My eyes lose their shine I am lost in each poet’s maze.

Ms. Wagenschutz please stop this at once Each day I feel like such a dumb dunce.

I cannot take much more Of these poems galore This can’t be my pièce de résistance.

ABBY HUNG ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

Full of similes and metaphors Teacher says these works open doors.

They lead us to knowledge— Or in my case college— Yet I find these poems just bores.

JOHN’S ISLAND HIBISCUS

Limerick of loathing

SUMMARY OF THE POEM: During the lantern festival in China, this is the only time for girls to go out of their house socialize with other people, especially boys, and they hope to find the guy they love; otherwise they have to listen to their parents and marry someone they don’t know. Therefore, all the girls dress up and go out with a lantern, hoping to find a guy. This poem describes the way the girls put their favorite clothes and makeup on, their facial expressions (eyes), and their laughters. They hope the god of marriage can let them meet someone they like, and you can see thousands of lanterns sparkling.

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

AN ALLURING SHADOW CHRISTIAN ILITCH ‘18 // POETRY

Slimy curly slippery in my hands Bright silver SHARP jagged hook Danglin’ spaghetti on a fork Splash the line goes Sinking further and further Like a shipwreck to the bottom silence. SNAP. BUZZZZZZ

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Bending Bowing the rod goes Grinding and turning My arms are burning Darting shadow Blinding sun Silver in the air Beautiful scales everywhere

SCALES

LUCY BARNOWSKE ‘19 // WATERCOLOR

NOBODY’S SHEEP WILLIAM HIGBIE ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

OUTDOORS

TAMARA AJJOUR ‘17 // POETRY Wandering through woods and Stumbling upon an Old oak tree: Hunter green.

Moss and mold and Leaves so cold they turn Hunter green.

Sitting by mantelpiece cloaked A woolen blanket with Ends that fringe A green grief grabs me Like a fisherman Tugging the Trout.

A delicate strain, a struggle.

And as the fish swims off The boat drifts away The fisherman surrenders Cold and hungry under the somber sky: Hit with hunter green.

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

KEEP LOOKING UP

WILLIAM HIGBIE ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

STAND A LITTLE TALLER

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Smack!

The sound of the ball hitting the top of the net, it could’ve been either the best or the worst thing. I stood there helplessly, leaning to one side breathing heavily as I if could give the ball one last push over the net, even though I knew it was 39 feet away from me, and my breath would not stop the ball from falling back onto my side.

It felt like the ball was sitting there on top of the net, like a bump on a log for days, waiting until the last second to choose its side. Anxiety was crawling through my body. I squinted to see closer where the ball was deciding to go. And in my peripheral vision, I saw my sister Maddy, sprinting toward the net in case the ball were to drift on to her side. Even though she knew that if it came over, it would have bounced so slightly, there would have been no way she’d get to it in time. But she continued to put on a show for the audience made up of our parents.

When finally: Dink!

The ball dropped. All I could think about is whatever that small-neon yellow tennis ball did could change the way I will be thought of by my parents, my friends, my coaches, and even the way I think of myself! I thought about what could—would—happen if my sister, two and a half years younger, beat me for the second time in a row? Up to that point I’d been telling myself that the last time was a fluke, that I would get her next time and there was no way she’d beat me again. But in that brief moment, when I saw the ball falling onto my side, my confidence level dropped down to nothing. How could I go back to practice and tell all of my teammates?

This second time beating me would mean that she truly deserved it the last time, that it wasn’t a fluke, and everyone would think—everyone would know that she had passed me and the point of being unquestionably better than me.

“Oooh!” My mother let out a small sigh

MELANIE ZAMPARDO ‘20 // CREATIVE NONFICTION when the ball hit the ground. She would never admit to it, but both my sister and I know she secretly roots for me to win, since I’m older, and she has more sympathy for me. And she should. I’ve always worked twice as hard as she does during practice, I’ve always been more motivated to play. While Maddy waits after practice on her phone, I find someone to hit with. When I want to put in more hours, she thinks she’s good enough to just put in minimal time. I am mentally and physically better than her at every single thing we compete at. Except for the one thing I honestly care about most; tennis. I envy her for her natural born talents that I don’t possess. Her long arms and athletic build, she’s virtually made to play tennis.

I hit my racket against the ground, not hard enough to break it, just enough to let everyone know how upset I was.

I walked up to the net like molasses. I tried to keep my head up, but it was a boulder. I saw Maddy skipping up to the net with her hand held out in front of her ready to shake mine. I prepared myself for the see-look-how-muchbetter-I-am-than-you comment I knew she was going to make. But instead she just put on a smirk and looked off to the side.

My experience afterward helped me realize that that match did not make anyone think worse of me. In fact, I learned that I could handle the disappointment and even grow from it. The only thing my coach and parents saw were that I was already preparing to play her again—I had the eye of the tiger. I am now very focused on the areas of my game that need more attention.

That moment of grief when I lost that match has only motivated me to play hard against all of my opponents; never underestimate them and never be brought down just from a match because it won’t matter in the long run.

Besides, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. . . right?

LIGGETT 2017

Physics is a hydra

OLIVIA PONTE ‘18 // CREATIVE NONFICTION CRAYON ILLUSTRATIONS

LAMBREQUIN

Physics is a hydra. If you are not familiar with this creature, allow me to explain: a hydra is a monster in Greek mythology that has nine heads. However, when you try to kill it by chopping off one of these ferocious heads, two more grow back in its place, making the overall situation worse than before. Not only is there another head to deal with, but there is also the problem of trying to figure out another way to kill it.

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So, let’s get back to physics. The disgusting, gruesome hydra itself is the subject of physics, and the original, ugly heads are the few simple questions I have. Not too bad. However, when I try to answer my questions by asking a teacher or peer—by chopping off all of the heads with a nice pointy sword—everything just gets worse.

More questions develop and I have no idea how to get answers—more heads grow and I have no idea how to kill the beast.

There was, of course, the smart, courageous hero that successfully conquered the hydra: the one and only Hercules. Did he know that force equals mass times acceleration and, therefore, insert a weapon of the correct mass at the perfect angle with the appropriate force? No, because who would do that? He burned the neck after chopping the head off. Knowing how to successfully murder a mythical creature translates into comprehending the mythical concept that is physics? I have yet to figure that out.

And thus: will I, Olivia Kathryn Ponte, be the Hercules of the twenty-first century and conquer physics once and for all?

Will I be able to find an alternate method to understand this grueling and merciless topic, defeating the odds and figuring it out before the semester ends? Will I go down in history as one of the greatest heroes of all time, remembered by people with the same awe that we remember Hercules? Will I be spoken of as highly as the Greek hero?

Yet I am convinced that since it is possible to kill a hydra using fire, then I must be able to understand physics using another method (probably not fire). However, like all of the poor souls of Greek mythology who did not find the correct method in time, I fear that my hydra will soon defeat me before I defeat it.

Probably not, but it is nice to dream.

LAMBREQUIN

II. The three of us were soon to be sophomores and one was moving 1,463 miles away to Texas. We were confused and scared and, in that moment, the night sky swallowed us. The roof of my friend’s cabin was flat enough to lay on, atop blankets and pillows and surrounded by hot cocoa and goldfish crackers. It was also slanted enough that we noticed ourselves gradually sliding down every half an hour or so. As more stars appeared, the temperature plunged, and by the time we finally gave in and went inside to sleep, a thin layer of dew covered my pillow. The next day, I had a cold. But none of that matters, because for one night, wrapped in the safety of the darkness and the comfort of the fact that the world was too big for our small lives to matter, we talked about our crushes and God and loneliness and how we weren’t sure if Slenderman was just beyond the tree line.

III. The tents took too long to set up, and the counselors eventually ended up doing it themselves because we were kids who got bored and wanted to go exploring.

There was a trail at the back of the campsite, but what it led to was veiled by weeds, low-hanging trees, and hills of sand. In retrospect, the weeds were probably actually poison ivy, but I think this story sounds better if I call them weeds.

Passing through the threshold, we found thousands of those little hollow reeds my parents always called “puzzles” because you could take them apart and put them back together. There were tall grasses and short grasses and mosses. There were sand dunes. There were sand dunes taller than my house, taller than the Eiffel Tower, taller than God himself. There were sand dunes that had belonged to us since the beginning of time. There were sand dunes so hidden that nobody had ever seen before that nobody would ever see them again.

64 65 TEARS, TARPS, AND BLANKETS OF STARS AMELIA DOETSCH ‘17 // CREATIVE NONFICTION

I. Before I begin this story, I’d like to make one thing clear: I’ve never seen a firefly. I’m going to say that I have, though, because I think this story sounds better if I say we saw fireflies.

We had a tiny tent, made out of cheap polyester the color of cobalt and boysenberries. Approximately two kindergarteners fit inside it. Needless to say, it was not the kind of tent you would want to be stranded in the wilderness with. Nevertheless, my childhood is marked by balmy summer nights on which my sister and I would set up the tent in our backyard underneath the canopy of the trees. Years later, we

would set up our inflatable pool and tetherball pole in that very spot. But before that, before I knew cat fights or heartbreak or failure or injustice, before I knew how to be a friend or a student or a woman or a person, I knew one thing: how to be a sister. And being a sister went something like this: setting up the tent, bringing out our sleeping bags, and, after hours of giggling and playing pretend, cuddling in and going to sleep under the protection of the flimsy, faded polyester, through which we could see fireflies.

I don’t think we ever stayed the full night out there, but I think this story sounds better if I say we did.

StAMPEDE

ALEXANDRA DIGGS ‘18 // COLLAGE

LIGGETT 2017 Climbing to the top of the tallest dune, marring the pristine slopes of sand, was a Herculean task.

But once we were at the peak, we felt as if we were standing on top of the world or Mount Olympus (or maybe just a really tall building). In one direction, there were more trees than there are in all of the Amazon Rainforest, as far as the eye could see and as vast as the ocean. In the other direction was the unrelenting Lake Superior, as cold as it was unforgiving.

As the sun went down over the lake, we sat there at the summit, watching the powder blue sky turn dandelion and tangerine and magenta and saffron and, finally, navy blue. We descended back into the woodlands, and, that night, lying on the cool Earth next to near strangers in the tent that took too long to set up, my heart had never felt so full, my life never so complete. On top of that dune, I swear, I felt God in every grain of sand.

IV. The counselors laid a tarp out on the beach and we crawled into our sleeping bags, warm and cozy underneath the blanket of the stars, Mother Nature humming lullabies until we dozed off. Sure, when I woke up, I was covered in sand, and there was a branch sticking into my back, but I think this story sounds better if I don’t mention that.

I lied on the cold earth next to those girls who I’d spent the entire week with and would never talk to again, and, as much as I never wanted to admit it, I thought about God. I thought about God and how blessed I was to live in this imperfect world where I could sleep on the beach in the middle of nowhere and somehow feel more in love with my life, the universe, and nature than I ever had and ever would.

Here, I learned the most important lesson of my childhood: the greatest gift Mother Nature ever gave us was a place to sleep.

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

POMEGRANATES, PLUMS & POP ROCKS ANNABEL ROMANELLI ‘18 // POETRY

KATRIEL TOLIN ‘19 // FILM PHOTOGRAPHY

PRETTY

VICTORIA ORTIZ ‘20 // POETRY

I’m writing this letter just to say, How are you doing today?

What’s your favorite ice cream?

Do you like Pop Rocks?

I just want to know you better.

•

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Do you believe in having a lucky number?

Is purple your favorite color?

Are you still filled with wonder, Or are you wishing to be younger?

I’ve noticed that Everybody never noticed . . .

Everybody isn’t always focused On what’s going on with a fruit Who isn’t exactly the boldest.

I love being around you regardless.

What’s your favorite song?

I hope you don’t think this is too headlong.

If you do, then I guess you wouldn’t be wrong . . .

I’m only excited to start a friendship (lifelong?)

•

the girl & the bear

Hello to the Pomegranate,

BRIGHT BUZZ BLOOM

‘pretty’ wasn’t in the dictionary didn’t tell her how to look ‘pretty’ it told her words meaningless she didn’t understand yet looking in the mirror she didn’t see ‘pretty’ (she didn’t even know what it meant) she looked all over but couldn’t find ‘pretty’ her pale skin and matted hair didn’t say ‘pretty’ her hand-me-down clothes didn’t say ‘pretty’ but her mom pointing to her chest said pretty is inside and it’s what’s in your heart and the next time she looked in the mirror she saw pretty

HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

One day I’d like to explore Maybe turning this acquaintance into more; A wholesome friend is all I’m looking for.

I hope that this letter wasn’t a bore I’ve just got a lot of love to give.

Please write back soon Or I’ll feel like a prune.

With love, The Plum

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

THERE ARE MORE TREES ON EARTH AMELIA DOETSCH ‘17 // CREATIVE NONFICTION

THAN STARS IN THE MILKY WAY

1.

There’s a crab apple tree in my backyard.

When I was little, my dad built a sandbox underneath it. Years later, it became the first tree I ever climbed. I tried to build a secret hideout in its branches. I remember exactly which branch I used to sit on, how I would hoist myself up into its protective embrace and think about how boring my life was and how cool it would be if I were a spy.

CJ MORRIS ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY ABBY HUNG ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

2.

There’s an oak tree in my backyard that holds up the rope swing my dad built when I was five years old. I don’t know how he did it, but, somehow, he managed to secure the rope to the lowest branch, which is at least 20 meters off the ground. This tree stands sentry over my house, weathering all the storms that I can barely stand to listen to.

3.

There’s a scraggly tree up north at our campsite. My dad built a swing there too. Its chain handles squeak against the wooden seat every swing. My sister and I are too big for it now, but we used to sit side by side on it, each holding onto one chain and the other girl’s arm, giggling about anything and everything and nothing, all at the same time.

4.

There’s a willow tree at the park near my house. It sits next to the pond. Once, when I felt as if the world was spinning around me, I took shelter underneath its branches. I lied there on the ground and watched as the ripples of the unnaturally teal water

reflected onto the trunk, creating a living tattoo that danced across the tree’s flesh.

I listened to the sigh of its tired branches and felt peace wash over me.

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5.

There’s a tree I found behind my school.

It’s the cute, small kind of tree that you just can’t resist climbing because you know that’s exactly what 10-year-old you would want you to do. When I first came across it, the October air was so cold that I felt it in the marrow of my bones. The wind pinched my cheeks and mussed my hair like my great-aunt always does. I sat among the tree’s perfectly symmetrical branches, shaped like a toadstool or an umbrella, and I wrote down everything I loved about the world.

6.

There was a pine tree in the backyard of my old house. It was taller than the Empire State Building, I swear. It was tall enough that my sister at five and I at three could stand under its branches. It was our secret place where only we could go and nobody could ever find us. When we moved out, the people who bought the house from us cut the tree down. I hope it knew how much I loved it.

HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

LAMBREQUIN

LIGGETT 2017

“A Dolphin’s Smile is the Greatest Deception”

My Pet peeves

GABY CAVATAIO ‘17 // LIST

AVOGADRO OR AVOCADO

70 71 sleepING beauty

BRYAN WAHL ‘17 // HAIKU SPENCER LUKAS ‘19 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

My alarm goes off In a panic I wake then Back to sleep I go

AMANI TOLIN ‘17 // GRAPHITE TODD COSTELLO ‘19 // MIXED MEDIA

1. When someone holds the door for you, but you are a mile back and have to do that half jog so you don’t make them wait 2. When the shipping costs more than what you are actually buying 3. When necklaces or chords get tangled up 4. When you can hear someone texting with their phones on loud.

5. Looking into a CD case and it not being the same disc shown on the cover 6. The crust part on a milk carton 7. When ice cream drips out of the bottom of the cone 8. Loud chewers 9. The person who sits next to you in the the totally empty movie theater 10. People who constantly bounce their legs up and down 11. People who pick the machine right next to you in practically empty gym 12. People who put their gum anywhere but the trash 13. People

ceramic blue-ringed OCTOPUS MADDIE FOZO ‘18 // CERAMICS

LAMBREQUIN

A WORLD OF COLORS

ANNABEL

HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

MADDIE WU ‘17 // POETRY

My piano sits triumphantly in the living room Books on books on books on top Chopin, Schubert, Beethoven, the LISZT goes on Busts of Mozart and Bach Valiantly guard

And immediately taken to a world of black and white music My fingers start gliding across the keys Elegantly as if on ice And the world starts to change

I sit down on the bench And move the bench a quarter of an inch Forward so I am the perfect distance from the piano

Notes fly off the piano dancing in the air Combining with the other notes To become a beautiful song So pleasant to the ear

Breath deep and place my fingers on the smooth cold ivory keys

Bombastic forte, reds and oranges join the world elegant pianissimo, And sadness overtakes me And soft blues and greens enter Wonderful colors swirl around

I close my eyes and

MICHAEL LITT ‘18 // DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY

DETROIT SKYLINE

And I know I’m home

72 73 Wet Floor

ANNABEL ROMANELLI ‘18 // HAIKU Slippery when wet: Make sure to pay attention!

I slip anyway.

LIGGETT 2017

LAMBREQUIN

HOW TO PLAY CIRCLE

LIGGETT 2017

TAMARA AJJOUR ‘17 // CREATIVE NONFICTION What You Will Need: In order to play this game, you will need six things: 1.) A piece of chalk 2.) One day 3.) A hard surface (cement is preferable, but if you are willing to explain to your parents why there is a circle drawn on the hardwood floor then that is fine, too) 4.) An indescribable amount of free time and boredom which has culminated in you having no other choice but to play the game of “Circle.”

5.) Siblings that have all gone away to college, or are working, or are out with their friends in their cars.

They may or may not have their licenses yet.

6.) Friends at soccer camp, art camp, swim camp, piano lessons, and/or being tutored at Kumon How to Play: 1.) Go outside with you and your boring self (Really.

It’s a summer afternoon and you are about to start playing “Circle.”)

2.) With the piece of chalk, draw a circle on the ground.

The circle should be big enough so that you can sit inside of it cross-legged, but small enough so that

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you are not completely comfortable inside.

3.) Step into the circle and sit down. Try to stay inside of it for as long as you can, or until somebody tells you to get up because you’re being weird. Try not to take this too personally. It would be strange to find someone sitting on the ground in a circle.

4.) Once you’re situated in the circle you can do whatever you want—let your mind soar (but make sure to stay physically inside of the circle).

Do you want to go to the jungle? Close your eyes and go! Feel like going to the amusement park?

You’re there! Or you could sit and think about how strange you’re being and how you should probably find something to do the rest of the summer.

5.) As the minutes/hours progress decide at which point you feel ready to exit the circle and return to being “normal.” Lift yourself up and walk away, leaving only a mysterious circle drawn on the ground behind.

Not Allowed: 1.) To have more than one player present at any given time. This is an individual game meant to connect your outer self with your inner self.

2.) To stay in the circle longer than five hours. This becomes a health concern.

MOLLY SCHELOSKY ‘20 // PEN & INK

ROLLERSKATE

LAMBREQUIN

WHERE EVERYTHING IS OK

LUCY BARNOWSKE ‘18 // PROSE POEM & COLLAGE There is an alternate universe where the sky is the color of the rainbow and grass is replaced with flowers. People hold umbrellas to the sun and follow larger-thanlife insects through the city. It is the same place but holds more happiness than the world we live in now. People here look for an escape from their reality; it is a place where everything is okay.

CARROTS!

LIGGETT 2017

BRYAN WAHL ‘17 // POETRY mother screams, CARROTS! they must be peeled! there is only one man one being for the job someone with slight of hand and precision to face the dire carrots!

I screech mother look no further but to me!

I grab the saber and stroke by stroke I slice slash scrape orange flesh crashes into the stainless steel sink my mother smiles at me with a wink

I ‘17 // L L E N A M O ANNABEL R ED LIST ILLUSTRAT

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LAMBREQUIN

50 Tips & Tricks for Having Healthy Relationships & How to Show You Care ZAHRA KHAN ‘17 // LIST

1. You pay this time, they pay next time, you both 18. If you have the day off and they’re working, bring them coffee during their break. split the check the time after that. Repeat.

2. “Hey, pull over. I’ll drive for a while; you deserve 19. “Call me when you’re home so I know you’re safe.” a break.”

3. Good-morning texts. Use emojis. Embrace them. 20. If you drop them off, wait until you see them 4. Make fun of the emojis used in the good get into their house to morning texts you receive. leave.

5. “Bring a jacket; I checked the weather earlier.”

21. Ask them how 6. If you live 30+ minutes away from each their day was. other, switch who drives to the other person And mean it each time. when you say 7. “It’s okay, I understand you have other you want to things to do, and I’ll be here when you’re know how free.” they are.

8. “I’m upset, and this is why.”

22. “What 9. Good night texts. Use emojis. Embrace do you them. wanna 10. Make fun of the emojis used in the watch?” good night texts you receive.

23. “I got 11. Don’t tell lies. Even if you think it’ll you this ruin everything, don’t. The lie will ruin drink everything. that you 12. If you don’t mean it, don’t say it. like.”

Even if you want to. Don’t. The lie will ruin everything.

13. If you feel like you’re being a burden, ask. Believe what they say.

14. If you need to be alone, voice that.

15. If someone tells you they need to be alone, respect that.

16. “I really like how you do this.”

17. “How you do this really HOLLAND MCCLINTON ‘18 // upsets me and DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY this is why.”

24. Make jokes. Especially if you think they’re stupid.

25. Laugh at jokes. Especially if you think they’re stupid.

26. “I got you this instead because I know you don’t like that other thing.”

27. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up.”

28. Look them in the eyes when they speak and watch how there’s more emotion in the sea of blue or green or brown than there ever could be in any combination of words.

Appreciate that.

29. Believe them when they tell you something. If you find out they were lying, believe that they had a good reason to.

30. “I’ll stay up with you.”

31. Learn about them. About their family, their likes, their dislikes, their body language, the way their nose twitches subconsciously to push up their glasses (even when they’re not wearing any).

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straight face

LIGGETT 32. Tell them about things you’ve always wanted2017 to do but never could.

33. Tell them about the person you thought you would be but aren’t.

34. Tell them what changed.

35. Tell them.

36. Tell them some more. They will want to hear it.

37. Blush when they tell you you have a great smile.

38. Blush even harder when they say you make them laugh.

39. Ask for help if you need it, even if it embarrasses you.

40. “Is your seatbelt on?”

41. If you wake up before they do, get out of the bed quietly so you don’t wake them up.

42. Proceed to wake them up with breakfast in bed. Even if it’s just cereal.

Especially if it’s cereal.

43. “Drive safely!”

44. Tell them you appreciate them, share all the positive things you feel for them. They will want to hear it.

45. Talk from your own experiences.

Don’t make assumptions.

46. Give praise. But not too much.

47. Give criticism. But not too harshly.

48. If they’re upset and having a breakdown and not answering their phone, drive to their house and make sure they’re okay. You won’t regret it, not even if you have a meeting at 6:30 in the morning the next day.

49. If they need to talk to you, listen. If they need you to talk to them, talk.

50. Tell them you love them.

As a friend, as a lover, as a coworker, as a person, as them. And mean it.

LAMBREQUIN

Golden splendor wafts The Midas Touch of all lunch School’s Chicken Patties

by Lucy Alpert ‘17

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