Talisman 2012 by Wakefield School

frozen Talisman 2012 Volume 22 Issue 1

Frozen: Talisman 2012 Volume 22 Issue 1

Wakefield School 4439 Old Tavern Road, The Plains Virginia 20198

Talisman 2012 Staff Editor-in Chief

Amina Tobah Page Layout Designer/ Art and Design Editor

Kate Weimer Poetry Editor

Juliet Mayer

Staff Nicole Creeden Morgan Hadlock Rachel Tyeryar

Prose Editor

Nicole Andersen

Faculty Advisor: Dr. Perry What is a story or a poem but a thought from that moment in time? A thought, written down on a page, that will last far beyond the time of death. Writing is a way to petrify your emotions and display them for the world to see or hide them away to be discovered at a later time. Through art, we can capture a time in the creator’s life, perfectly preserved. We can see what they saw, feel what they felt, and possibly discover something new ourselves. This book is collection of these thoughts, these emotions, and these moments, frozen in time for the world to see.

Mission Statement

Talisman is a literary-art magazine showcasing the creative efforts of Wakefield’s Upper School from grades nine to twelve. It is designed and produced by a small staff of students under the supervision of a faculty advisor. In choosing pieces for this publication, the staff strives to highlight originality in content and expression, and to offer a broad range of genres and subject matter. Fiction is the work of the author’s imagination and does not necessarily represent actual experience

Colophon Typeset was done in microsoft Word 2008. Cover set in Cochin. Inside Cover set in Cochin and Perpetua Bold. Title Page set in Cochin. Table of Contents and Index set in Cochin, Zapfino, and Saint- Andrew’s Queen. Bylines set in Tahoma. Page numbers set in Cochin. Poetry set in Helvetica, Lucida Handwriting, Cochin, and Zapfino. Prose set in Helvetica and Cochin. Prose and poetry titles set in Century Gothic, Zapfino, Carbon Type, Cochin, Edwardia, Perpetua Titling MT, Mistral, Caflisch Pro, Nueva STD, Payday and Hurculanum. Binding is Perfect Bind with 1/4” Spine. Inside pages Futura Gloss Text White 80 lbs. Transparent page, UV Ulta II in Radiant White 28 lbs. Cover is in CC1S Cover White 12 lbs.

Outtakes and Cultural “Dr. Perry, Can we get ice cream?” -Alex Simon “I will only use the bathroom at my house!” -Alex Simon “Sorry guys, we have to turn around...” -Dr. Perry “I AM HOT!” -Amina Tobah “dsfkjha;rghu;fjkkjadfhg;oaihr;o” -Kate Weimer “Talisman is my baby, made with love and spoon fed” -Kate Weimer “Genther, say something funny...” -Kate Weimer “No...” -Gary Alan Genther “WHO SPELLS ALAN WITH TWO A’s?!” - Genther

CSPA AWARDS 1994 Medalist 1995 Gold Medal 1996 Gold Medal 1997 Gold Medal 1998 Gold Medal 1999 Gold Medal 2000 Gold Medal 2001 Gold Medal 2002 Silver Crown 2003 Gold Medal 2004 Gold Medal 2005 Gold Crown 2006 Silver Medal 2007 Bronze Medal 2008 Gold Medal 2009 Gold Medal 2010 Gold Medal 2011 Gold Medal

Special Thanks To: Dr. Perry for constantly offering us advice on publishing and design and making sure that everything got done. Mr. Genther for your endless Indesign and Photoshop knowledge and answering all of my random last minute questions. Mrs. Mulligan for for all your patience, understanding, and support. Steve Winters at Piedmont Press for all your help throughout the years. My Parents, Mr. Tobah and Mrs. Ahmed, for all the support and advice. All the Upper School students who submitted this year and offered us a moment from their lives to be persevered as a part of Wakefield’s history. And finally Kate Weimer, Alex Simon, EricaJoy Oliverio and the Talisman Team for the endless laughs and fun. I wish you all good luck next year and I’ll miss you all dearly.

Talisman 2012 MMXII Volume 22 Issue 1

Wakefield School 4439 Old Tavern Road, The Plains Virginia 20198 1 89989 Talisman insides.indd 1

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Table of Contents table of con-

Poetry 10 Solitude

David Provance

11 The Shadow and the Light Will Clemency

12 Time

Nia Genther

13 Godlike Beauty Chan Shim

14 The Wanderer Isabelle Byers 22 Sunshine

Trevor Newman

24 Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Beauty Sojin Yeo

26 Solemn Statue Sarah Stirrup

30 Spring

Alexandra Simon

31 Rain

Emily Brown

35 Cotton Cables Julie Fortney

40 Heads and Tails

Rachel Cowgill

45 Starfish

Caroline Farr

46 Fall Day

Kelly Mason

Coffee Shop Affair Erin Callahan

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Cover photo by Haleigh Hutchison, Edited and Remastered for Cover

Rhythm of my Game Ariel Jankins

A Ballad of Consequence

Prose Sophia Rutti

71 Wood Working Matthew Steensma 80 Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Only Color Sean Plummer

6 I Have a Dream Juliet Mayer

10 Pool Sharks Isabelle Byers

16 Panic In Paris Mary Clubb

29 Cadaver

Samantha Gumbin

33 Dear Sarah

EricaJoy Oliverio

38 Cinderella Story Nicole Creeden

48 Early Wakeup Call Alexandra Diaz-Aleman

56 The Shack Lucas Quinn

62 Jack of All Trades Benjamin Weimer

74 My Dillardized Childhood Morgan Hadlock

78 Unknown 83

Nicole Andersen

Road to Freedom

Nicole Andersen

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Art 9

Flowers

Sydney Lee

11 Kaya

Katherine Weimer

22 Ode to Banksy Julie Fortney

32 My Sisters

Katherine Weimer

39 I Want to Feel Beautiful Katherine Weimer

41 My Special House Caroline Kessler

45 Crab

Julie Fortney

Photography 68 Red Lips, White Pearls Ciara Hutcheson

80 Maine

Katherine Weimer

83 Natalia

Katherine Weimer

Self Portrait Trevor Newman

Anna-Marie EricaJoy Oliverio

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Fire Hydrant

Alexandra Diaz-Aleman

Leaves

Trevor Newman

table of contents

48 Cups 11 Beach Julie Fortney Amina Tobah 49 The Woods 15 Blake Benjamin Weimer Kate Weimer 50 Vase 19 What You Cannot See Hannah Zontine Kate Weimer 52 The Swing Alexandra Diaz-Aleman 20 The Trip of a Lifetime Danny Geiger 52 Two Friends 25 Cairo In January Carter Dale Amina Tobah 53 The Fair 26 Arc Alexandra Diaz-Aleman Gabby Castano 53 Morgan 27 Chinese Tower Alexandra Simon Alexandra Diaz- Aleman 56 Cups 2 28 Famous Words Julie Fortney Kate Weimer 58 Self Portrait 30 Chairs EricaJoy Oliverio Chan Shim 59 The Wall Carter Dale 31 Rain Boots Caroline Farr 60 The Sand 34 Photographer Haleigh Hutchison Caroline Hoffman 63 Tree Carter Dale 35 Elegance 64 The Woods EricaJoy Oliverio Carter Dale 36 Flagstaff 65 The Boat House Kate Weimer Caroline Hoffman 42 Chairs on the Beach 66 The Beach Amina Tobah Haleigh Hutchison

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IIHave a Dream Have a Dream By Juliet Mayer Grade 10

Since 1927 with the release of The Jazz Singer, the first talking picture, audiences in movie theaters have been charmed by musicals. However, the musical itself has been stirring hearts on the stage since ancient times. Thousands of years later, we still melt when the male and female leads sing their romantic duet. Thousands of years later, we still feel the prickling of tears during any of the tender ballads. Thousands of years later, we still feel the urge to jump and dance during the upbeat group finale. I have a dream that we will someday live every day like life is a musical. Literally. You’re angry? Sing about it. You’re in love? Sing about it. You’ve got a new pair of shoes? Please, sing about it. In this bright new future, full of song and dance, no one will frown and give you a weird look for this behavior; instead, they will join you in an expertly choreographed number, which, of course, you just came up with on the spot. No questions will be asked. Performing renditions of classic pop hits at random intervals will seem routine, rather than ridiculous. The characters in musicals don’t have the imprisoning inhibitions that many of us do about bursting into song in a public space. Any place will do usually, but lately, however, with the relatively recent risings of such musicals as Glee and the sprawling High School Musical franchise, schools seem to have become a hotbed for percolating musicality and theatricality, a soup that will imminently boil over its container and coat the stovetop of our daily lives with a hot mess of flamboyance. I have a dream. To others, it is a chilling nightmare, a dark specter of panache that threatens to harass them with the twin annoyances of loud volume and bad pitch. However, for me and others like me, it is a fantasy, a sweet symbol of the joy and spontaneity that could transform our lives from dull tedium into glamorous exhilaration. I have a dream that one day football jocks and band geeks will lunch at the same table, before leaping onto that very table to perform a rousing number about unlikely friendships. I have a dream that one day the two tethers of self-consciousness and social appropriateness will no longer hold us back. These tedious chains will no longer be able to restrain the buoyant songs within our hearts from leaping forth and telling the world how we feel. I have a dream that one day we will no longer be burdened by the heavy reprimand: “There’s a time and a place for show tunes.” I have a dream today. When this glorious day finally arrives, the sound of song will be inescapable. It will echo from largest cities to the smallest towns. It will ring from places once devoid of all 6 89989 Talisman insides.indd 6

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melodic sound: MRI laboratories, morgues, the International Space Station. Let music ring from every hallway, where the gaps between classes are suspiciously long. Let music ring from the mall, where flash mobs seamlessly congregate in a matter of minutes. Let music ring from every classroom, in which lessons will be interrupted in favor of students expressing their feelings via a song. When this music finally rings out, when my dream is realized, mankind will achieve a sort of joy that can only be felt by singing loudly and badly and not caring who hears it. We will ascend to a melodramatic nirvana full of song, dance, and drama. As the characters of Sesame Street once encouraged us so long ago, we will sing, sing a song, sing out loud, sing out strong!

Sydney Lee Grade 9

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By David Provance Grade 12

Superfluous sounds of sorrow filled the air, And the aging, aggravated by such noise, began to bellow. The concerned cries of worried women wandered into depression,

And I was alone.

A mere child with feeble fingers against the glass, Looking down into the transparent window At the sinless child sequestered in a sole crib. The innocent infant had a hole in her heart, One in which I, a mere child, could not fill the vacant void. As the disturbed doctors came to my mother’s aid,

I watched solemnly in solitude.

As I was enveloped in empathy for my sister’s grief, I wallowed in the crowded corner where I soon escaped, Made my way to a hollow hall; an empty environment Where my naïve nature was able to breathe.

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Trevor Newman Grade 12

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The Shadow and the flee. l l i w e Light ct h e j b o n A

ines, h s t a h light t to be; e h t s g fromdow seem n i d i d H e sha r behin o Th , r e v er, o To und ays clever lw a is w o d a sh That shifty evade the light, to g in y tr n e h W sweet endeavor ith w es ch oa pr ap e sh For when He disappears from sight. The light is curious of the shade, Wondering why he must hide, For e wants a unity to be made , A friendshipsh as smooth as the ti de. The shadowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too shy to meet the light, And only feels

By Will Clemency Grade 11

comfortable

during the night.

Katherine Weimer Grade 11

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pool sharks By Isabelle Byers Grade 12

Most people point an accusatory finger at the blockbuster movie Jaws or the weeklong August television production Shark Week as the cause of the latent fear felt each time they wade into the ocean’s foamy surf. This fear may not keep them out of the water, but they never quite shake the feeling that lurking nearby is a torpedo shaped creature with a large mouth full of razor sharp teeth capable of ripping them to pieces. Strangely, sharks never cross my mind when I am in the ocean. Stranger yet, they occupy my every thought when I am in a pool. Composer John Williams’ ominous two-note ode to the Great White shark and August’s marathon television programming have done nothing to quell my love of time spent in the ocean. Immersed for hours on end as the surf pounds around me, I am just another fish in this watery world and certainly not worthy of attention by hungry sharks prowling for a meal. Thunderball, the James Bond movie in which Sean Connery is thrown into Largo’s shark-infested pool, is another matter entirely. This one film has done for pools what Psycho did for the shower curtain. Since watching Thunderball, I have become an irrational, lily-livered sissy when it comes to jumping in a pool. Instead of cannonballing into the deep end and plummeting towards the bottom with reckless abandon, I cautiously creep down pool stairs one step at a time. As my eyes scan the water’s surface for the slicing and cutting of the telltale dorsal fin, I can almost hear the Jaws theme music and find myself stuck in the middle of a horror film. Sharks undoubtedly are loitering in the deep end, hoping for some rube to go for a leisurely swim. Lucky for me, I am no rube. Just as fish swim in schools to minimize their individual risk of being eaten alive, I always swim in the company of other people. Not only are my chances of becoming shark bait significantly reduced when I am only one of many potential meals, but my constant vigilance and quick response time surely will propel me out of the pool before dreaded sharks can lay a tooth on me. Dangling my limbs before the jaws of death and miraculously returning safely to land somehow leaves me invigorated. I have subdued my fear 10 89989 Talisman insides.indd 10

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and emerge whole from dangerous waters. Rational thought on this issue eludes me. Formulating why and how sharks might lie in wait in a swimming pool requires far-fetched scenarios not worthy of the rational mind. I know this. Similarly, chlorinated water is not kind to creatures of the sea and the likelihood of a shark surviving such an environment for long is remote. I know this, too. Still, my fear persists. Perhaps I long for the thrill that accompanies fear. But if this is the case, why not fear ocean-dwelling sharks that really do exist and are a legitimate cause for concern? Perhaps the simple explanation is that fearing the irrational is perfectly rational. I can have my thrill and survive it, too.

Amina Tobah Grade 12

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timetime By Nia Genther Grade 12

ly ‘round, w lo s l w ra c s hand be found. to t s The long cold lo e th r ondering fo Waiting and w

The face in the night

Shines grey with delight, The steady rapping Like a foot gently tapping.

Where does it go? Why so slow?

low. Daylight brings it all ag ove The hands no longer m

so slow,

Loud chimes ring out, A new day is about. Wound up tight Hands ready for flight A steady march from day through night.

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Godlike Beauty

By Chan Shim Grade 11

You look more beautiful than Aphrodite, So perfect, thus nothing to complain. Your beauty is heavenly and almighty; The word “beauty” is not enough to explain Your incredible beauty, to last forever, Never able to stay away from you. When I don’t look at you, I get a fever; Please be inside of my view. To speak with you, give me the courage. Courageous and cowardly, I don’t know which one to choose. I promise the endless love and not to outrage, Make her read my mind and come to me, Zeus. Whenever you smile, you smite The sunflowers to turn around. For your smile engenders the glowing light So bright that makes energy surround. Once in a while I see you grieve; Simultaneously, the tissues dread. For they don’t want to receive, The sorrowful tears to spread.

EricaJoy Oliverio Grade 11

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The Wanderer

By Isabelle Byers Grade 12

A white speck in a white abyss, Undistinguishable as it detaches from the sky, And seemingly lost its listless descent. Twirling, spinning, and drifting, it defies gravity. Not vertically set, but sidetracked and errant Like a rambling gypsy roaming the dry winter air Until it emerges distinctly, A crystalline complex. A flawless atom of ice, unappreciated from afar. Now separate among a thousand like specks, Up, down, around, and diagonal it rushes. Stop. I welcome the wavering wanderer. Palpable momentarily, Lingering but for an instant, It vanishes on the tip of my tongue. I smile, satisfied.

lingering for an instant

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Kate Weimer Grade 11

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By Mary Clubb Grade 9

panic in Panic

“ urry up, girls! We’re going to be late!” My dad’s voice penetrated through our ears, and I could feel myself getting closer to spontaneous combustion with every word he uttered. He was marching us like a herd of sheep, throughout Paris. This was just another moment for me to be reminded of how happy that I am away from the middle school, away from being shepherded, and further away from everyone who tries to control me. I glanced over to my friend Shelby, her blonde, curly springs of hair gently tied back into a ponytail, high up on her head, and bouncing with each step she took. She was roughly 5’,1” but she had lost a few inches from slouching in complete exhaustion. I could see her tired eyes, glazed over just like my own, and I knew we both felt this same way. Aside from that, Paris has remained one of the favorite cities I have ever visited. If you are lucky enough to be at the top of Notre Dame at sunrise you can see the sun just peeking out of the clouds. Each ray reaches out around, managing to touch every building, every crack, and every crevice. It bounces off the river Seine. You can see the carefully etches arches in each of the windows. There are lines of washing hanging out to dry. At one glance you can become transported back to Paris as you can see it in history textbooks. You can picture people dancing the can-can on the Moulin Rouge. It is expected to see a horse and carriage clip clopping down the road at any second. It was last summer, and Shelby had joined us on our vacation to Europe. I wanted more that anything to show her all the beauty that I saw in Paris, so we took a day trip there. The only thing that kept me slightly interested, because of my pestering dad, was my new toy. I had gotten a new camera at an old flea market. It was an ancient Polaroid one that still used film. There was this special feeling I had whenever I used it. I would lift the clunky old thing up to eye, and just seeing that image in the small frame of the viewfinder would transport me away from my tired, angry state. I simply couldn’t hear anything, and was so focused in capturing small glimpses of beauty which always seemed to pass us by on these trips. We would move too fast, and in the blink of an eye we’d miss so much. It was my only means to snatch away a memory. I would stop every few seconds to take a photo, in an almost futile attempt to capture all of the beauty that was engulfing us. Step by step I would yell, “Stop!” and I’m sure it would get on my dad’s last nerve, but it was what he deserved. One of our stops on the race around Paris was the Eiffel Tower. My dad called over a taxi, we jumped in, and set off.

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paris Paris

As soon as we stepped out of the taxi, it was like we got hit right in the face with a brick wall. It was the height of tourist season at the biggest tourist attraction in Paris, and thousands of people were at the base of the tower with us. Almost every different language in the world was bombarding my ears. I couldn’t understand anything, and I couldn’t hear myself think. It was utter chaos. This speaking just became noise, raw noise, as it spiraled around my head. Every person imaginable was in the crowd. Every country was represented, I’m sure, and it looked as if the whole world were facing us. They looked like a swarm of flies, with a constant buzzing noise radiating out. It seemed as if life just moved on around us, and we didn’t even matter. I felt almost dizzy and confused. I was claustrophobic, and though no one was directly around me yet. More than anything, I wanted to go back into that taxi and drive far away. The only thing I was sure of was that I was much more lost and distant than I had ever been before, even though my dad and Shelby were right there. I was stuck and surrounded by nothing familiar at all. The taxi sped away, and the dust blew up and clung to the backs of our legs like glue. My dad arched forward with Shelby, and I managed to catch myself and tumble behind. I looked up and saw the Eiffel Tower. This giant complex structure loomed over us. Every metal beam connected into a perfect geometric structure. I had seen it before, but each time I was always amazed by the creation looming over me, silhouetted by the sun behind it, and casting a shadow over all of Paris. It was a nice escape from the disaster down below; I needed to save this part of the memory. I yelled, “Stop,” and before checked if they heard, I looked through my lens and snapped a photo. I couldn’t help but be pleased with myself, because I thought it had turned out quite well. I remember having a sort of smug look on my face, but as I looked down it quickly faded to terror. I saw the same mass of people, but the only two recognizable faces to me, in what seemed like the whole world right now, were gone. I reached down for my phone but it was the one day I forgot it. My hand reached around, shaking and searching my bag and pockets, finding room keys, and sweatshirt, chap stick, and a hat, but no phone. Almost every bad scenario began to rush through my mind. I could be kidnapped, lost forever! They could have left without me on purpose; I could wander this for

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country forever, without hope. I walked forward, thinking they could only be a few steps ahead of me, but I was wrong. By stepping forward, I had plunged myself into the vast crow. There was very little breathing room, and how could there every be enough for walking. My previous assumption of loneliness was completely incorrect. Now I realized that I was actually well and truly alone. I couldn’t think. I ran around, bumping into people and getting glares from everyone around me. My eyes darted back and forth looking for my dad. Normally, I despair at how touristy he looks, but this was the one time I wanted to see that more than anything. I searched for that red checked shirt, khaki shorts, sneakers, camera, and those glasses, darkened in the lenses by the sun. His t-shirt tan that showed whenever his sleeves rolled p, and his tube socks could normally be found anywhere. Even his fanny pack, and camera bag, was impossible to find for once. Any other day he was a standout among all these classy Frenchmen. I went to all four posts of the town, but had no luck. I tried to search my brain for French or English or even “Franglsh.” I just needed something to say to someone, but every time I tried to open my mouth, nothing came out. I just choked on air, and my throat was dry. The only thing I could think at this point was, “I’m screwed.” I ran to the middle of this mess and looked around with one last hope, with my heart beating out of my chest. Just as I was about to break down in tears I saw them. My dad was bright red in the face and yelling at the top of his lungs, “MARY!” I ran over and collapsed into my dad’s arms, and a part of me never wanted to let go for fear or losing him again. I hugged Shelby too, with the same idea dashing through my thoughts. I managed to breathe again, and stutter out the words, “D-do you have an-any idea how flipping scared I-I was?” My dad, still hugging me, caught his breath and gently whispered out, “I think I do.” That day I realized something even scarier than the experience itself. One day I would have to let go, and I could get lost and there would be no one to run back to and hug. I started thinking, that also one day I might lose such good friends as Shelby. I would have to move on from

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Katherine Weimer Grade 11

my life here in Virginia. I would have to grow up and leave everything I had come to know and love more than anything else. I came to understand a new fear of mine that had grown out of this experience. It was not one of being lost, because that has happened many a time before, like being separated from your mom in the grocery store. No, I already had that fear. A new fear that dawned on me was one of growing up. I never want to have to do that. I want to go back to the days when the biggest issue or drama you ever had was about who stole your purple crayon. Where boys had cooties, and it didn’t matter if someone did anything wrong, because they could be your best friend regardless. Yeah, I was okay after the experience. We went on with the rest of our day, but I couldn’t shake the thought of my mind that this feeling that I had would and needed to come back. I would be forced to let go, this time permanently. I think the reason I love Paris so much is that it is my fantasyland. It manages to withstand the toll of time. It hasn’t changed. It may have had the need to change sometime or another, just like most cities, but it still doesn’t. Paris hasn’t blown up with skyscrapers on every block. It has done what I secretly wish I could do, never grow up.

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the

of a Lifetime A Series of France By Danny Geiger Grade 12

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Amina To bah Grad e 12

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Sunshine

By Trevor Newman Grade 12

Her sunny eyes have never shown conceit.

In her heart, I have never found jealousy. From afar, it’s clear, her lips are sweet, A flaw, if any, I do not see.

Her simple picture coaxes a smile, Her voice – her laughter – sweet music to my ears.

If only her, through love, I could beguile, And be as one for all our years.

Julie Fortney Grade 12

She is my joy,

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, t h g i l n u s y m my happiness,

ersation. Bringing bliss even in simple conv delight. In her mere presence, I will ever Wars would I fight for my sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s incarnation.

Yet, clouds cover the skies,

des.

And behind them my sunshine hi

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By Sojin Yeo Grade 12

Winter Wind Whooshes away like a galloping horse, Warmth of this autumn’s final days Blowing in heavy, snow-laden clouds. Gray sky, White flakes. . Biting coldness dwells. Darkness descends earlier now. Days short, Nights long, Changing times. Sun rises. Snow glistens like the sky jeweled with stars Frost covered trees reveal nature’s artwork Icicles hang from rooftops high Snow drifts Winter’s Beauty.

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Amina Tobah Grade 12

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solemn statue solemn statue By Sarah Stirrup Grade 12

There lies a stony face,

A face made of stone,

That doth adorn a small flowery wreath like a crown of thorns.

The crown of the king is placed upon a sad face, That gave up all it had; now to be a home for woodland creatures unknown; See them scamper all around, disregarding the melancholy mood of A face made of stone. Even the warmth of the sunlight star cannot brighten the frown That looms over the kings like a storm cloud, veiling A face made of stone. Forget now, and walk away, just like other travelers, Leave this sorry place and this sad figure with A face made of stone.

Gabby Castano Grade 10

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Grade 11 Alexandra Diaz-Aleman

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Katherine Weimer Grade 11

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Cadaver Cadaver Cadave I Samantha Gumbin Grade 12

walked into the room. She was lying on the table with her face covered out of respect. She was old, probably eighty, and smelled strongly of formaldehyde. They didn’t tell me her name; I wasn’t there to mourn for her, but to learn from her. I watched as they used a scalpel to cut her skin and muscle away and sheers to cut her ribs. Others flinched with the crunching sounds of bone cracking, but it didn’t bother me; I knew what I was about to see was more important. The doctor removed the chest plate and revealed what had never failed to completely enrapture me – the internal organs. I’ve always known I wanted to go into the medical field, but the specific area continuously eluded me. I’ve gone through phases of certainty, where I was positive I wanted to be a surgeon, and then sure that psychiatry was my calling, but those pass and I end up back at the place where my passion lies - in the morgue. The doctor caressed each of the organs and reminded me of their anatomy and physiology. He slit the pericardium and pulled out the heart. I was first to approach the table and I linked eyes with the doctor. He was around sixty, with a growing bald spot and a spare tire around his waist. He slowly moved the small, quiet heart into my hands. It was as if he was passing me a baton, as he was nearing the end of his medical career I was reaching the beginning of mine. I felt the peaceful heart resting in my hands. I lowered my gaze and realized that I was bumping up against her limp hand, and that her nails were painted a soft, rosy pink. My hands traveled across her circulatory system, through her respiratory system, and down her digestive tract. Along the way I found a benign cyst on her kidney, discovered that she had a hysterectomy, and that she had her appendix removed. I could imagine her as a teenager, cringing because of the pain coursing through her abdomen as her appendix began to swell. I could imagine her husband squeezing her hand as she was rolled into surgery to get her uterus removed, and I could picture her as an elderly woman, waiting apprehensively to hear whether her cyst was benign or malignant. Through her body I saw her story; though she was gone, her body remained to report the events of her life. It’s the few times when I have been gowned and gloved, holding an internal organ, that I feel I am exactly where I want to be. In my head I return to that day, with that nameless woman’s open body cavity and freshly painted nails resting before me and I want to understand both her life and death.

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Spring

â&#x20AC;&#x153;

By Alexandra Simon Grade 11

New buds sprout from soil

As rain sprinkles from the sky;

Fresh smells fill the air.

â&#x20AC;?

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Chan Shim Grade 11 5/16/12 3:11 PM

Rain

By Emily Brown Grade 11

tin roof, Pounding on thdeewalk, Streaming down the si Drops drip and dribble

Against the metal cars.

Clouds eclipse the stars.

The night is dark, the air is cold, The rain is new, the sky is old, Warm, white fog above the grass,

Drizzle fades, the storm will pass . Peeking rays of golden sun,

The world is calm, the rain is done, morning has come

Caroline Farr Grade 11

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Kate Weimer Grade 11

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Dear Sarah

By EricaJoy Oliverio Grade 11

Dear Sarah, I’m writing this letter to you in a toilet stall. A filthy toilet stall, with soggy toilet paper pasted to the floor and vulgar pictures and gossip scrawled in permanent marker on the green metal walls. I’m alone; no one knows I’m in here and, if they did, they wouldn’t care. I’m a nobody here at my new school. Not a loser; just a nobody, a corporeal phantom that floats from class to class unnoticed and unwanted. I’d like to say I was a loser. At least losers have friends, other losers with whom they can share their misery. I have no one here. All I have is you. I miss you so much, Sarah. I miss the way your nose would crinkle when you laughed. I miss the way you used to tap your foot when you were angry. I miss the way you used to look at your hair when you were bored. I miss us. I miss our sleepovers, where we’d paint each other’s nails, gorge ourselves on sweets, and stay up late, whispering stories and secrets to each other in the darkness. I miss our summer vacations, when we’d eat sundaes at the ice cream parlor, run barefoot through the neighbors’ sprinklers, and tan religiously by the pool. I miss the way our eyes would meet across a crowded room as we shared an inside joke, our secret smiles, the way we used to laugh until we cried. I hate being away from you. It’s so hard. Every day the absence of you surrounds me, mocks me, confines me until it’s hard to breathe, until tears stream down my face. I hate that my parents brought me here, away from you. I know they think I’ll forget about you here, a thousand miles away from the place we called home. But I won’t forget. I can’t. I know you’re out there, Sarah. Somewhere. Waiting for me to come to you so life can be like it used to be. I’ll find you; I promise. I’ll find you and then we’ll never be apart again. I’ll see you soon, Sarah. I promise. Your best friend, forever,

Ellie

Eleanor Macpherson was found unresponsive on her bed at 7:29 PM on Thursday, November 10, 2011. She was declared dead at 7:51 PM by medical personnel. The autopsy states that the cause of death was an overdose of sleeping pills. The above note was found near the corpse along with a framed picture of two young girls. One was the deceased; according to the deceased’s parents, the other was her childhood friend, Sarah Abrams, who died earlier this year in a car accident. The only other items on the deceased were clothing and a golden bracelet holding a single charm, a broken heart saying “Best Friends Forever”. This death has been ruled a suicide. 33 89989 Talisman insides.indd 33

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Caroline Hoffman Grade 11

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Cotton cables By Julie Fortney Grade 12

Knitted cotton cables Slowly wind their way Up an ivory sweater On a bleak December day.

Like a family quilt, Made to keep a child warm, It wraps me in its folds And hugs my slender form.

White braids weave in and out Like a frantic doe. Much more than a sweater Its fabric made of snow. EricaJoy Oliverio Grade 11

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Kate Weimer Grade 11

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CINDERELLA cinderella STORY By Nicole Creeden Grade 10

I. Sara Lott In the photo, there are two rows of girls in yellow and blue soccer uniforms. The year is 2006 and the girls are no older than eleven. The back row is standing while the front row is down on one knee. The girl in the middle of the front row is holding a soccer ball in her hands. A sweet red-haired girl kneels just to the right of her and is smiling from ear to ear. This is normal for her, I believe, because for the two years I have known her I have never seen anything less of a smile on her face. Only two years later, the same girls in the picture gather in mournful silence at a church. They are no longer smiling, and one very special person is missing from their group. People are crying as the preacher reminds us of this little girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life that was ended much too soon. The sobbing sounds are soon drowned by the bagpipes and the August breeze.

sto

II. Cinderella I am in fifth grade and on stage in a maroon-colored dress. I have a very small part in the elementary school play Cinderella. The stage light is beating on my eyes, and when I look out to the crowd I see mere shadows of faces. The day before, several girls on my soccer team told me that they were coming to see the show. I was unsure whether they made it or not as I scanned the audience for familiar faces. I was beginning to think they didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come until I saw a familiar beautiful red-haired girl in the crowd. Around her were my other teammates. After the show, I ran up, hugged them, and told Sara that I was only able to locate them because of her fiery red hair, and we laugh. In 2008, the dress hangs limply in my closet. I once thought of it as beautiful, but now all it does is bring back memories I sometimes wish I could forget. I take the dress and throw it in a trash bag, only to fish it back out later. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not sue why, but getting rid of it seems to be worse than keeping it. So there it hangs, a constant reminder that life is not always a Cinderella story.

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tory

Katherine Weimer Grade 11

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Heads and Tails

Lucky to some,

Wealth to others,

always changing hands.

Small and round, like the letter o, It fits easily in the palm on my hand.

By Rachel Cowgill Grade 12

This

coin has been so many places

Stuffed in pockets, put into piggy banks.

Spent and saved, spent and saved again.

It has a face on one side With rough, uneven edges.

This coin is small, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worn weary traveler.

Dragging its feet from one place to another. It has been cherished and saved,

spent and forgotten.

To some it has meant so much,

To others nothing at all.

This coin has settled arguments,

picked sides,

and provided luck.

Now the coin has found its way to me. Stuffed in my pocket, put in my piggy bank

It will be my lucky, my wings, my wealth

Until my coin, my traveler,

must move on again

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er.

Caroline Kessler Grade 9

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Amina Tobah Grade 12

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Julie Fortney Grade 12

Starfish

Found in the depths of the ocean Drifting through the crystal sea Five arms spring in motion

By Caroline Farr Grade 11

Oh how lovely that life would be. Nothing to do but aimlessly float, Burying itself beneath the sand. No responsibility it has to tote, Wafting through life without a plan. But when a storm comes, how will it fare? No longer drifting, but thrashing around Breaking into pieces, now in disrepair, Sinking into the darkness, never to be found.

Once a beautiful creature it used to be,

Now forever lost on the bottom of the sea.

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fall day

By Kelly Mason Grade 11

The wind swirls around me,

The leaves fill the air,

I try to flee.

Never have I seen a sight so fair.

g leaves

The great trees beckon to the fallin

Which differ in their shape And fall upon the farmers sheave s.

They drape the crops; They get swept up and put away.

The season comes to a close.

The leaves in their array Have finished their show. The ground gets ready to freeze All the leaves leave.

Alexandra Diaz-Aleman Grade 11

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Trevor Newman Grade 12

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Early Wakeup Call rolling over did not smother the violent argument

call

EARLY

WAKEUP

By Alexandra Diaz-Aleman Grade 11

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words like hate, regret, fault

Julie Fortney grade 12

5/16/12 3:12 PM

As I drifted out of the sub-conscious, I was greeted by screeches and screams. It began as a background to the dream I was slowly returning from. The screams became more distinct as my brain related those with the voices I had heard all my life: asking if I had brushed my teeth, cheering me on in a field hockey game, offering advice, telling me about their days, and even giving me stern words to reflect on less than reputable behavior. Whether in good or bad context, these were the people who were most important in my life. These were the voices of a family. With the recognition of these voices, I strained to hear through the barrier of my bedroom’s walls. These voices were indeed my parents, but they were accompanied with fervor and anger. My mom’s voice was highpitched and strained, and her words were diluted and prevented by the tears that I couldn’t see. Her sadness and hurt was infectious, and soon I too was sobbing in my bed, dreading what I gravely expected. I simply couldn’t take it. The pain was building to such a dangerous degree in my chest. I rolled over and attempted to reach the silent sleep that had been interrupted. But simply rolling over did not smother the violent argument. I had started to lose hope in falling back asleep, when the screaming and fighting came to an abrupt halt. I strained my ears to hear some furious whispers and insults and the footsteps approaching my room near the stairs. I held my breath and feigned sleep, but the steps began the trip downstairs instead. With every hesitant footstep was a clunk. This suitcase was not the average weight. It was fairly light, and it was clear that the carrier was tacitly conflicted with agony. Angry footsteps ensued and the angry banter continued. Words like “hate”, “regret”, and “fault” drifted to my

drifted to my ears, and they ate away at any hope I had irrationally clung to. I implored sleep, but even I knew that it was infinitely out of reach. I rolled onto my side and allowed the tears to flow unhindered onto my pillow. With nothing to do but think, my mind reeled dangerously. Thoughts of terrible consequence consumed my mind. Thoughts of fighting. Thoughts of separation. Thoughts of broken families.

Ben Weimer Grade 9

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Hannah Zontine Grade 12

He mumbles as though he is 50 89989 Talisman insides.indd 50

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coffee shop coffee shop affair affair By Erin Callahan Grade 12

Strolling down the shivery city streets,

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m welcomed by the warming scent of cocoa beans. The mocha colored upholstery completes the toasty and comforting feeling. I sit back, slowly sipping on my sugar-filled tea. My drink keeps the creeping sleep away As the customers carefully consider their soothing purchases . The machines start running, and I hear the racket of the dishes. The goose bumps soon subside as thirsty patrons receive their drinks. The newspaper shakes as the sophisticated man swiftly shifts through it. I watch as it opens and closes, opens and closes. A vagrant looking man trudges by the window. With hair falling out and clothes in tatters. Those wandering eyes peer through the glass with worry wretchedness. Making his way into the shop. He mumbles as though he is speaking in a different tongue. His prying hands soon start to seek. I walk out with a hole in my pocket.

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Grade 11

Carter Dale Grade 12

Alexandra Diaz Aleman

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Alexandra Diaz Aleman

Grade 11

Alexandra Simon

Grade 11

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rhythm game By Ariel Jenkins

Grade 9

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Wam wam, bam bam, lam lam,

I dribble the ball with rhythm, The sound moves my feet to the beat, and then I repeat. I swerve in and out, I curve around to the basket, I count one, two, three dribbles and shoot. I dribble to the beat high and then low; I dribble to the beat fast, then I go slow. Make no mistake, I can take it in from my right; If you overplay me I will dribble to my left all night. Wam wam, bam bam, lam lam, I can hear the sweet rhythm in my ear. My quick right to left crossover is something to fear. Give me the ball and let me dribble around and hear that sound; I am making sweet music beating that ball on the ground. Wam wam, bam bam, lam lam.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;

The sound moves my feet to the beat and then I repeat

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â&#x20AC;?

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The Shack

9 n Grade in u Q s a By Luc

Julie Fortney Grade 12

of activity. We continued through that next field, slowly following the fence line on “You ready the northern edge of the field. As we went, to see it?” I asked. we both peered cautiously into the woods “I guess… I mean, how bad can it to our left, both noticing that they never be?” Matt Bachinger replied. We were looked as menacing as they did right now. walking down from the Farm Bash Field, “Y-you okay?” I asked Matt with a a field that’s name was derived from my little bit of a stammer. uncle’s birthday party, a massive annual “Yep, don’t worry about it,” he replied celebration that turns a generally quiet with fabricated bravery. We began to apand serene part of our farm into a how-to proach the cattle guard that would lead us seminar for beer guts. The party was ocinto the woods. “What’s so scary about it?” curring as we spoke, and we could still hear Matt asked me as we neared it. the blasting music from it. It was a sunny, I knew this would be a hard question warm, late-May afternoon, Memorial Day to answer, as I had only known Matt for weekend, and we were both about twelve a few years prior to this day and had only years old. We were just arriving at the exit ever usually seen him at the Farm Bash. He of the field, and continuing into the next wasn’t related to any of my family that frefield, coming into view of the manor house, quented the farm, just a friend of a cousin, but still a good two-minute sprint from it. so he hadn’t grown up with the stories of We both couldn’t help but notice yet again, “the shack,” which became a sort of psychoas it is every year during the Farm Bash, logical weapon of my adult relatives against the eerie silence that engulfs the rest of our my cousins and me, hoping to warn us not farm due to that drunken, staggered center to go out into the woods without a weapon, 56 89989 Talisman insides.indd 56

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or at least that’s how I interpreted it. “You’ll know when you see it, its scary as hell. There was this homeless guy named Sunstroke who we let live up there until a couple years ago. We didn’t even know his real name. You’re gonna piss your pants,” I replied as we progressed into the woods. “Oh, sure… It’s too bad Eliza and her friends didn’t come. This would probably kill them,” Matt said sarcastically, referring to my cousin and about twelve of her friends who had refused to come with us. “Nah, I think Eliza would be fine. She’s seen it before. She said it didn’t scare her too much and that everything that the grownups said was just to scare us. Kinda like that old, fake wax lady that’s in the Big House basement. She said that it’s all in our heads,” I explained to him. For the last day, I had been taking him on a kind of “scare tour” of the farm, into the basement of the manor house to the supposed body of an old lady who ate her husband, and to the graveyard where the ghosts of dead slaves were supposed to walk again at night. ~ We slowly continued along the wooded dirt road, down the hill to the shooting range. At every sound, we would freeze and look around, just to make sure the ghost of Sunstroke wasn’t following us. I looked around. It was a sunny, warm, late-May afternoon, and I kept trying to remind myself of the countless times I had walked through these woods, usually alone, and now I was with someone. I tried to comfort myself in this, but it didn’t work. The leaves on the trees above us seemed to be closing in on us, making our path darker by the second. I gripped my knife in my pocket, afraid and

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ready to stab anything that moved. We trudged down the hill to the shooting range and finally reached the creek at the bottom of the hill. “We almost there?” Matt asked anxiously. “We’re getting there,” I replied. It was here that the road took a gentle turn to the right, with the left side open to the back end of the shooting range until the turn led us back into those menacing woods. “You sure you don’t wanna just mess around with the cars at the other end?” Matt asked cautiously, obviously trying to avoid the shack. “Nah, let’s just get it over with; we can do that on the way back up to the field,” I replied, trying to sound stronger than I was. “I heard that Sunstroke used to kill kids and hide their bodies here,” I told Matt, trying to scare him, but ending up scaring myself. The trees seemed to take one step closer to us, slowly cutting out the light that would guide us home. “You’re just being dumb- did you hear that, too?!” Matt replied, so terrified you could see the hairs on the back of his neck reaching towards the closing sky. “Someone’s over there! I swear I heard something!” I decided, or at least I wanted to decide, that the sound was natural, but within seconds I was convinced of the opposite. The sound of a bone crunching could have easily been a leaf crunching, and leaf crunching could have easily been a bone crunching. We were both silent for a moment. I could feel the goosebumps on my skin slowly start to appear, and I could feel eyes on me like a silenced sniper rifle, ready to destroy its prey at any moment. Slowly, as if coming from a distance, the sound came again. By this time, we had crept along the wooded path far enough to see the field where the shack is located. 57 5/16/12 3:12 PM

“HOLY CRAP! There it is again!” Matt screamed like an animal. “Dammit! Come on, let’s just get this over with… Then we can go down to the pool to swim,” I said, hoping that a deer would come out of the woods at any moment, “You know what? I bet it’s Eliza and her friends just trying to scare us.” “I hope!” Matt said, shaking, “Eliza, if you’re in there, I swear I’m gonna kill you!” There was no response. We continued down the path, slowly, and crept around the final tree that blocked our distant view of the shack. Despite our distance from it, probably about 100 yards, the shack seemed inches from our faces. It was enormous, menacing, with its decrepit, greyish, black body, blown-out glass panes, a door slowly swinging on one hinge, and a Satan-red roof. Both of us froze in our tracks. From our perspective, it could have easily been the entrance to a mineshaft that led straight into the deepest bowels of hell. Sound seemed to emanate from it. We heard the screeches of the grasshoppers and the crickets from the field in front of us, and they became the horrible, pain-filled screams of damned forsaken souls. Every time I saw the slightest

movement of the tall grass, I thought it was the movement of something trying to bring us into that horrible, evil house, and the flicker of light sent by a passing cloud was the flicker of fire from inside the shack. “Holy crap… let’s get the hell out of here,” Matt said slowly, astounded. However, neither of us dared to turn around; we were afraid that whatever we heard in the woods would be right there behind us. We stared blankly ahead until I said, “Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three!” We turned simultaneously, only to discover that there was no demon following us. We glanced at each other, and then bolted. We shot past the shooting range, up the hill, over the cattle guard, past the graveyard, through the next field, and to the pool, where we found Eliza and her friends. “Were you guys at the shack?” Matt asked, panting. “No, why?” Eliza asked.

EricaJoy Oliverio Grade 11

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Carter Dale Grade 12

There was something out there. It was like something was right on our backs the whole time. “There was something there. It was like something was right on our backs the whole time.” “Haha, really? You guys are wimps.” After discovering the sounds and the feeling of being watched were not the result of a prank, so we headed back up to the field to tell our story. Looking back on the incident, all of the sounds were probably natural and the eyes were probably just a figure of our imaginations, but it is sometimes said that the mind of a child can detect things that an adult mind cannot. To this day, I have not experienced anything as absolutely horrifying as that walk to that old house. It was as if that was the very place at which evil was created,

and that day was Satan’s birthday. As for my opinion on what actually happened that day, I believe that there was something in the woods around the shack. Whether it was a lost drunk from the Farm Bash or something more insidious – I don’t know. I have only returned to the shack once since then with less than five other people. 59

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Haleigh Hutchison Grade 12

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By Benjamin Weimer Grade 9

My granddad is the Jack-of-all-trades, as he would say, the best at everything he does. He is an engineer, a collector and the best teacher I have ever had. I call him Pa. That was what my sister first called him when she was small. He is known to the world as Richard Frederick Bastow, but most people just call him RFB. I think Pa suits him the best. Pa is about six feet tall, one inch shorter than me, but if you ask anyone he is taller than me by a good two inches. He always has been taller than me and in the eyes of anyone who knows us, he always will be taller. That’s just the way it should be. He is 77 years old, but has the energy of a 40 year old. His skin is dark from years in the sun, and many years with tanning oil before anyone knew it was bad for you. He always wears khakis and a navy blazer, and has a tie for everyday of the year. He considers it to be his own personal uniform, he has had the same uniform since the day he dropped my aunt off at Vassar. He has more than enough ties to wear one ever day for a whole year without ever repeating. He even has enough Christmas ties for Christmas to be every month. He is the best tree climber that I have ever met. This summer we built a tree house in a nice old White Pine tree right on the edge of Middle Range Pond, a small lake next to his camp in Maine. The tree house is about 62 feet off of the ground, and is in the same shape as the camp, “a pregnant A frame”, the shape of an upside down boat. Pa and I have been working on this tree house for the past couple years. We started it when I was eleven, but now it has become a yearly project, and we are almost done. We spend hours in the tree. I always go up first so he can send me up the supplies. There is no ladder so only Pa and I can get up, but not without a little work, scampering from limb to limb like squirrels; in fact Pa and I are the only ones to every set foot in the tree house. He hoists up the boards and the frames for the roof and all the necessary tools using our elaborate pulley system installed to hang out over the edge of the platform. Then he comes up himself to help with the building, though sometimes he lays down below on the ground, using a rock as a pillow yelling up pointers as I work.

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When he was a kid, he built his own tree house and he used to go up while his brother sat at the bottom sending up all of the supplies. SO now he says it is his turn to stay at the bottom and send up the supplies. After spending all morning in the tree, we go for a swim in the lake. We make quite a pair, Pa in his lime green inner tube and me in the hot pink one, we spend hours floating around watching the loons swim through the water, admiring our handy work as the jumble of boards takes on the more distinct shape of a house, high up over the lake. Looming above us, taller than a 6-story building. “See that island, way over there,” Pa says pointing across the lake, “when we first moved here in 1968, your mom and I used to paddle the float over there, because we hadn’t gotten a boat yet.” The float is a wooden platform still anchored about forty feet offshore in front of the camp for people to swim out to, the same float, but now the 138 Clorox bottles it used to float on have been replaced by the more modern concept of Styrofoam. We would both laugh. Each enjoying the stories of the past, and then just float again in companionable silence, talking without the need for words.

Carter Dale Grade 12

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Pa just retired last year from the Central Maine Community College, where he had taught structural engineering and surveying non-stop for the last 43 years. He practically ran the school, being the longest serving teacher and the favorite of all the students. He had even been there long enough that some of his early students have enrolled their children there just to have him for surveying. He didn’t like to just tell people how to use the surveying equipment or tell them what the different beams looked like. He had to show them. He never threw anything away, because “he could show it to his class.” You could tell just by going in his garage that he kept everything. He has a wooden beam of every size, an I-beam of every size. He even has his old iron bike from the 1930’s that he threw away, and then decided, that he really did need it, so he went to the dump to pick it up. He also has a firefighters helmet from 9/11 that one of his students wore during the clean up.

Carter Dale Grade 12

Pa knows absolutely everything. Last summer when he picked me up at the airport, he was commenting on all of the structural features of the terminal. “See that 2 inch cable,” he said, “that can hold 32 tons and only weighs 10 kilograms per meter”. He also informed me as to how much one of the pillars probably weighed. “It looks to me like that pillar over there weighs about 6000 pounds, because the density of cement is 94 pounds per cubic foot, and that column looks like it has about a two foot diameter and is about twenty feet tall.” On top of being smart, Pa also likes to be tough, swimming with my uncle, Tio in the ocean off of Belfast. Tio means uncle in Spanish, and he lives in Arizona and speaks fluent Spanish, so that is what he wanted us to call him, and that was the first word I ever said. Pa and Tio every year go into the ocean, near my uncle’s vacation home in Belfast for a swim. Even in summer the ocean water is about 48 degrees, but they go out to their necks and just stand there, with the waves rolling around them, and the boats bobbing up and down with the tide. “Wow it’s not too cold today”, Tio says, as his lips are turning blue. 64 89989 Talisman insides.indd 64

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“ Yeah it is rather nice today” Pa replies. Then about five minutes would elapse, and Pa will say, “I think I hear Bonnie calling for lunch.” But not getting out, waiting to make sure that he is last out. “I hope she whipped up something good for us today” Tio says excitedly, and he moves toward the shore. “That was a great yearly swim”, both will remark later. The time I spend with Pa are the greatest times of my life, not only do I have great fun with him, but he has also taught me so much. He has taught me how to use tools, and how to use math, and countless others thing that I will use throughout my life. From Pa I have learned to be a Jack-of-all-trades, and I hope someday I can perform every trade with the skill and prowess that Pa does. Caroline Hoffman Grade 11

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Haleigh Hutchison Grade 12 89989 Talisman insides.indd 67

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of consequence aa ballad ballad of consequen

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Ciara Hutchison Grade 12

By Sophia Rutti Grade 11 Over the horizon the sun burnt red, a furious ball of ever flowing dread. A source of life past, it only destroys- Each of our hands poised to mold the circle of hell which heaven once held. A shallow gulch lays, the deepest grave of sublunary games, with cries (unintelligible to my foreign name) screeching out into the shimmering flame. Each breath a deep burning sting, the cracking of fragile bones within a body wrought with sin. A body devoured of hope, a soul devoured from within by the loss of all that was and all that could have been. Unsatiated heat, slowly eating from the outside-in, the figure falls to its knees begging for release. The serpent slumbering within rouses itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s thoughts and sets free itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kin. Their tongues rose and writhed, tearing through Earthly things until finally the throat they reached and with flames he did sing.

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ence

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wood working wood working By Matthew Steensma Grade 9

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My hands rub over the smooth grains, Like a needle of a record player, Picking up the sweet song, stuck inside the pits. I rub the sandpaper over the edges and center, The paper coarse, and rough as barnacles, Perfecting the gradual hills and valleys, In the landscape of the wood. The very landscape that it grew in as a sprout. I looked up at the towering tree, A walnut, strong, clean, and healthy. Towering into the clouds, A pillar in a palace of ancient gods. True beauty, dug deep into the soil, As my chainsaw eats through its moist veins, The cloud of dust is like an attic, The smell is bright, fresh, The wood survives, As hard as wrought iron. More toil of splitting and chopping, The planks spit out like chewed gum, Gnarled and sticky, oozing. Then they are left to dry in the must shed, Beside the mahogany and ash. In a place where nothing but the dust will touch them, Secret and secluded. The seasons pass, the colors change, The smooth board ready for Something. I stroke the walnut once more, With sandpaper softer than skin. Rubbing out the final dimples, Smaller than grains of sand. The arches are crisp and precise. I look and smile, cuts in my hands. My finished piece, gleaming and shining like oil, Replacing the lost, ancient walnut. 71 89989 Talisman insides.indd 71

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Amina Tobah Grade 12

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Dillardized

Childhood

By Morgan Hadlock Grade 10

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When I was ten, I spent my first week away from home. The dirt and gravel road crackled beneath the tires and the sun streamed through the windshield, heating my legs until they turned a salmon pink. Eventually, the dense pines cleared to reveal a lake in a basin of the Blue Ridge Mountains, like water in the world’s biggest sink. I stared at the way the sun scintillated on the coffee brown waters and mirrored the icy cobalt peaks and wondered at the stirring, almost religious feeling in my heart. After hiking up the mountain with my belongings, I arrived at the cabin, out of breath and with a face the same hue as a tomato. The cabins were arranged in a horseshoe shape, casting a silhouette on the dining hall in the center of the summit. Mine was already filled, humming with the excitement of the prospect of a week out of the watchful eye of a parent. Girls were decorating their bunks with strands of brightly colored Christmas lights and playing cards, shuffling them so quickly they blended into a solid block of white. Saying goodbye to my parents, I spread my quilted mauve sleeping bag over my bunk and marched off to dinner. The dining hall was on fire. People were lined up around the building and squeezed into the few empty spots on the wooden benches. Lifelong “camp friends” reminisced over the events of the past year and ruminated about those of the weeks to come. Heaping piles of a dish called “chicken snot” were slapped onto the off-white plastic plates. Not appealed by the name, I pushed the meal around on my plate, sorting the particles congealed in the chicken broth by color. Besides, I was far too excited to eat; my eyes darted from table to table, taking in the face of

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everyone in the room. After dinner, the sun blushed a deep coral and slipped behind the mountains as hundreds of us were corralled onto a field like a herd of sheep and educated in the game of Scott Kelley, a talked up variation on Sharks and Minnows. My analytical, hesitant mind, for the first time in my life, shut off, and I ran. I ran, feeling the wind whooshing through my hair and my lungs filling with air like a balloon. I ran, reveling in the anonymity and the freedom that came with it. I ran until I was breathing fire and my legs shook like the sidewalk grate above an underground train. With every heartbeat, liberation and uncontrolled excitement coursed through my veins. Later that night, our counselors piled the fifteen girls from my cabin into a weather-beaten van with expired tags and a broken left headlight. We drove through the darkness for miles until the car came to a screeching halt. Anxious, we all jumped out of the van as soon as the car had stopped. The grass, cool and dewy beneath my feet, was illuminated by the moonlight and led to a creek, water gently flowing over the rocks like wind. I put my foot in and felt the electric shock of the dark, freezing water. As if compelled, I walked into the creek, not caring about the temperature. I floated on my back and looked up at the constellations against the endless onyx sky. Every pore in my body, every fiber of my being wanted to absorb the feeling that I, who was never on the same page as everyone else, was in perfect equilibrium with the world around me. I knew, for sure, that God must exist somewhere, for only a divine being could devise such a faultless place as Camp Varsity.

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Amina Tobah Grade 12

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unknown

Nicole Andersen Grade 10

It was a Sunday night.

Normally, we don’t get post, but on that Sunday a cream colored envelope sealed shut with green wax came flying through the slit in our front door. I remembered the disheartened expressions that rested upon the faces of my family. Growing up I had sort of convinced myself that my father could not cry, that he was too strong, but in this moment that illusion was shattered. I sauntered over to the rug on which the letter had landed and picked it up. I opened it up, even though I already knew what it would read, and sure enough I had to meet at the bus stop on the edge of town with nothing more than “a backpack of the bare essentials” to go onto my “exciting, extraordinary, eccentric new life”. Even though no one talked to anyone after they went away, we all knew that it wasn’t the great thing that was advertised on the sides of buses or on the backs of magazines. No one would be jealous when they found out. I stood, staring at the note for what seemed like a remarkably long time, reading it over and over, before I turned to look at my family. My parents ran up to me, my father hugging me tightly while my mother patted my back whispering “Congratulations darling” in an unsure tone. My brother, Shawn was too young to understand the situation and just sat at the foot of the staircase, silently staring at me. I wanted to reassure them. I wanted to convince them everything would be okay. I wanted to convince myself that everything would be okay. To be honest, I didn’t know what would happen. The rumors flying around about the select few, it made it sound like the people who received these envelopes were not “Chosen” like the advertisements would cause us to believe, but condemned. But why did I have to believe these silly stories? Maybe they were just rumors. Maybe I was headed to a place filled with endless opportunity. Maybe people didn’t come back because they were too busy being perfect and surrounded by all the luxuries of life. Who was I kidding? I was screwed. I knew I had to get out of the house. I had to go somewhere where I could breathe. I called my friend Chaz and asked him to meet me on top of a cliff that overlooked the whole city. I got there a bit before he did and I stared out. I knew somewhere, out past the edge, was where I would have to go tomorrow. Chaz and I had found this place when we were about 5 or 6 and it had always been our favorite place to just be. I felt in control up here. I wasn’t some meaningless pawn in a game, being tossed around by whoever it was that con-

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Julie Fortney Grade 12

trolled the city, but I was a person, in control of everything that happened to me. I stood up here and I could convince myself that I was going to be okay. Chaz got there only 10 minutes after I had arrived. I didn’t say anything to him, I just handed him the letter. Suddenly it seemed as if everything, time, space, and my heart, stood still. Finally, the silence was broken by his sad attempt at choking out some sort of comforting word, but all he managed was “Oh”. Then, we sat. Suddenly, I had everything just sort of come out. I had kept on a brave face at home. I had tried not to show fear or depression to spare my parents, hoping that if they thought that I was okay with it then maybe they would be okay with it too. Fact was, I was terrified and while I sat up on the cliff with Chaz I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t. I wasn’t crying, I was screaming. I was screaming at everything. I was so scared of the things to come. I was so scared of leaving everything I had ever known. I was petrified of unknown and unsteady status of my future. The more that thoughts I had tried so hard to push down came creeping up, the louder I screamed until suddenly, my earthshattering wails turned to defeated cries. I fell into Chaz’s lap, my tears wetting his clothes as he stroked my hair. Neither of us said anything. There was no point. No matter what anyone (myself included) said, I knew that where I was going wasn’t the incredible place the posters said. I did not know where I was going or what I was going to have to do, but I knew that people never came back because they couldn’t. People never came back because they were dead. Saying goodbye to Chaz hadn’t been fun but I knew I needed to get home to pack my “bare essentials”. I avoided my family for the remainder of the night since the thought of confronting them made me feel like I was going to start crying all over again. I took my last shower in my room, went to bed for the final time and experienced the sort of emptiness that you can only be consumed by once you’ve gotten too tired to be sad and scared. The next morning, my family accompanied me to the bus stop. They put on the masks of the proud parents, sending away their perfect daughter, but when they hugged me goodbye I could see them shutting down inside. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but a wave of guilt still crashed over me. The bus drove up and a man wearing a sparkly blue jacket stepped out and congratulated some other girl I had never met before and my self, and then he aided us in putting our bags on the bus. As we neared the tunnel that lead out of the city everything came rushing up, sadness, anger, gratitude, joy, fear, guilt, and even silliness. Then we were under the darkness of the tunnel, and there was nothing.

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It’s Only Color It’s Only Color It’s Only Color

By Sean Plummer Grade 12

Kate Weimer Grade 11

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It is not something one holds any choice over, Nor something as rare as a four-leaf clover. It is what all men and women bear, Something one is born with, at times in despair. It has the power to unite thousands as one, And the strength to split millions no one can outrun. It can separate people who know nothing of one anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s traits, Most cannot bear the hatred it creates. People discriminate by only color or shade, Creating a sickening racial blockade. Interacting only with those of their hue, They mar society with their abhorrent view. Lives ruined, civilizations destroyed, All because this animosity was employed. Existing for thousands of years, But it should not be the source of any more tears. It should not be the source of any more fears. It need just be another belief that disappears.

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Road to Freedom Road to freedom By Nicole Andersen Grade 10

There is something so effortlessly soothing about the sea. Sitting out on the boat I felt as if I could escape all the problems that awaited me on land. I felt as though everything might be okay. I felt, even, that I might be okay. Tomorrow I would be leaving for what my parents swore would be a “real shot at some emotional growth” and a “great chance to get away and find myself”. I hate that they’re making me go away, but I don’t blame them. Though I tell them how I angry I am at them for sending me away, I know that it is my fault I am leaving. Of course, that does not make it any better. I keep the brave and optimistic front up at home but sometimes I need to get out here to breathe and not lie anymore. I can see the lights on in our living room from out here on the lake; I guess they haven’t gone to bed yet. I know this isn’t easy on them either, but it’s not like I can fix it. I’m just so terrified. It’s silly, cause I know that they’re not sending me away to some murder house, torture chamber, or starvation society but the uncertainty of the whole situation just paralyzes me with fear. I hate being so out of control of my fate and my future, and I couldn’t stand losing my free will.

This all started quite a while ago when I started having dreams. This was after David died. He’d been murdered and no one ever found out who did it. I found my best friend’s body laying on the ground, cold, unblinking, and emotionless. The life had fled from his eyes. The pain of knowing that he would never again crack a stupid joke, criticize silly TV shows, or simply be in my life. I was more than just sad, and far past the point of crying, so I just sat there, physically frozen but emotionally descending into depression. After that incident my grades dropped, I ditched my other friends, and I just ceased to care. i

hate

being so

out of control of my

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I also started having these terrible dreams. The doctor called them “night terrors,” but that it probably the understatement of the century. Every night when I fell asleep my brain would play a cruel trick on me; my brain would make me believe that I had killed David. Every night I would stand over his dead body with his blood on my hands. Every night I drew the life out of my best friend. Every morning, I woke up in a cold sweat, horrified and alone. The same doctor that said I was simply suffering from “night terrors” eventually concluded that they were probably coming from some type of depression. I don’t know why my parents bothered to pay this man, I could have told them that much. I found the lifeless body of my best friend, and I keep having dreams that I murdered him, I think we’d have a bigger problem if I wasn’t depressed. My parents did what anyone would do, and hired a therapist. I liked the therapist enough. She hadn’t helped much but I still liked her. If anything, I think she made my mental condition more unstable. She kept testing me, pushing me to go deeper. Every time I went deeper, the pain dug deeper. I couldn’t beat it. After going to her 4 times a week for 2 months no progress had been made; in fact, things had gotten worse. Instead of not trying in school, I had stopped attending entirely. I had felt horrible before, but after digging deeper so many times each week for 8 weeks I had reached the bottom. I had trapped myself in a desert of desolate despair. My forever concerned and deeply caring parents decided that they needed to take more drastic action. They were desperate, and though I tried to ignore it, so was I. They contacted my therapist who referred them to a bunch of schools for the depressed and disturbed. Eventually my parents narrowed it down to a boarding school in Canada. That is where I am going tomorrow. My packed bags reside on my bed, but I lay in the boat. I’m scared of a lot of things. I’m scared I won’t ever feel better. I’m scared I will feel better, and not know how to handle it. I’m scared this school will make everything hurt more. I’m scared a new environment won’t “aid my rapid recovery.” I’m so scared that I’m shaking, crying alone in a small boat afloat in a small lake, in the middle of a big and threatening world. All I can think of is David. I never think of the good times together; the time we went to the beach and I taught him how to skip rocks, or the time we danced on the sidewalk to get money to buy dinner since we’d both forgotten our wallets. I can only ever remember the last time I saw his face. I was overwhelmed with stress, anxiety, and pain, pain that I had gotten far too acquainted with. I wanted it to be over. I didn’t want to go to the school. I didn’t want to talk about my feelings. I was sick of digging deeper. I just needed everything to end. I shook the boat side to side. I knew it was selfish, I knew it would destroy my parents, but it was the only thing left. I shook the boat until it fell over, with me trapped beneath it, submersed in water. Very quickly I felt everything and I remembered everything. Then, there was nothing. I was finally free. Kate Weimer Grade 11

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Andersen, Nicole Brown, Emily Byers, Isabelle Callahan, Erin Castano, Gabby Clemency, Will Clubb, Mary Cowgill, Rachel Creeden, Nicole Dale, Carter Diaz- Aleman, Alexandra Farr, Caroline Fortney, Julie Geiger, Danny Genther, Nia Gumbin, Samantha Hadlock, Morgan Hoffman, Caroline Hutchison, Ciara Hutchison, Haleigh Jenkins, Ariel Kessler, Caroline Lee, Sydney Mason, Kelly Mayer, Juliet Newman, Trevor Oliverio, EricaJoy Plummer, Sean Provance, David Quinn, Lucas Rutti, Sophia Shim, Chan Simon, Alexandra Steensma, Matthew Stirrup, Sarah Tobah, Amina Weimer, Benjamin Weimer, Katherine Yeo, Sojin Zontine, Hannah

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78,85 31 10, 14 57 26 11 16 40 38 52, 59, 63 27,46,48,52,53 31,45 22,35,45,48,56 20 12 29 74 34, 65 68 60, 66, Cover Photo 55 41 7 46 6 10, 22, 47 13, 33, 35, 58 80 10 56 68 13, 30 30, 55 71 26 11, 25, 42 49, 64 11,15, 19, 27,28,32,36,80,83, Cover Edit 24 50

Index

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Talisman 2012 Staff Editor-in Chief

Amina Tobah Page Layout Designer/ Art and Design Editor

Kate Weimer Poetry Editor

Juliet Mayer

Staff Nicole Creeden Morgan Hadlock Rachel Tyeryar

Prose Editor

Nicole Andersen

Mission Statement

frozen Talisman 2012 Volume 22 Issue 1

Frozen: Talisman 2012 Volume 22 Issue 1

Wakefield School 4439 Old Tavern Road, The Plains Virginia 20198