rings, strings, and other things 2016

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NORFOLK ACADEMY1585 WESLEYAN DRIVE

NORFOLK, VA 23502

757-461-6236WWW.NORFOLKACADEMY.ORG

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Rings, Strings, & Other Things

Volume XXXV2016

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StaffEditors-in-ChiefAlice YangSophie Jacobson

StaffEllie WhitmoreMackenzie Somers Makayla Thornton Jon Pavilack Emmaline HerringHenry TrinderSarah Woodard Emma Christoffersen Noa Greenspan Mariah Moss Chase ElserJacob Gusentine Audrey Fleder Fiona Murchake Mackenzi Mills Victoria Walker Katharine Anderson Gabriella DiskinMolly Ball

Faculty AdvisorCharlotte Zito

Art AdvisorKnox Garvin

PrinterProfessional Printing Center

Editor’s Letter During any study hall this past month, if you’ve tried to find us and failed, it’s probably because we’ve disappeared off the face of the Earth. Rather, we were on the second floor of Batten. There is a little known room there full of VCR tapes (including the critically acclaimed “Big Bird in Japan.” If you’re looking for the illustrious film, “All About Alligators,” we know where it is.) In fact, this room is so unknown, that we have jokingly hatched plans to slowly sell these VCR tapes on eBay, because we highly doubt that anyone would notice. Thank you to our writers, our artists, our staff members, and our tireless faculty advisor, Mrs. Zito. Without her and her reminders, coffee, cheeto supplies, and enthusiasm, this Lit Mag would not be in your hands. We are all part of a very talented community, and it was our job to capture that creativity in a mere 80 pages. We think we did a decent job, and we hope you think so too. This is for our senior class. We hope that you might one day recall your senior year, dust off the cover, and smile fondly. But, this is also for the next generation of writers, artists, and photographers. For those whose creativity knows no bounds. We may have placed the writing on the page, but you gave us your words. We may have cropped your photography (we’re sorry!), but you captured the moment. We, too, were once middle schoolers who pored over new copies of Rings, Strings & Other Things. So, this is dedicated to the ones who encouraged us, the ones who grew up with us, and the ones who will come after us.

Sophie Jacobson and Alice Yang

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Table of ContentsHow the Leaves Fall — Nathan Tenfelde ’21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

The Exile — Caitlin Fisher ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

She Said… — Henry Trinder ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

The Silence Around Me — Claudia Woods ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

A Conversation — Pablo Vazquez ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

An Elegy to Sustenance — Dan Collela ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20

About Yesterday — Henry Trinder ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

I Take Pride… — Kayla Kirven ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22

The Soldier’s March — Alice Yang ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25

The Third Day — Jacob Gusentine ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26

Joy — Pablo Vazquez ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28

Lovely — Hannah Wheaton ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Constellations — Caitlin Fisher ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32

Introversion — Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34

The Lady is Waiting — Sophie Jacobson ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38

A Quick Science Lesson — Alice Yang ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39

Grand Canyon — Michael Parsons ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40

Lifeguard — Noa Greenspan ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42

A Tribute to Her — Madeleine Munn ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44

An Absent Woman — Dominique Manuel ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46

Porto, Portugal — Amalia Gelpi ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48

The Butterfly Lady —Shelby Brown ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50

Metastasis — Amalia Gelpi ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

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Place of Rest — Nathan Williams ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Wonderland — Julie Luecke ’16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

Thunderstorm In Haiti — Aneesh Dhawan ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .58

A Man Scared… — Malcolm Schlossberg ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .59

To Have Loved Once — Naomi Mitchell ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .60

Laugh Lines — Jaden Baum ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62

Recapitulation for a Violinist — Pablo Vazquez ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . .64

A Springtime Encounter — Dominique Manuel ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . .66

Picture of Bliss — Madeleine Munn ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .69

Paint Cans — Warren Warsaw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

American Dream — Julie Luecke ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

Too Many Lights — Madison Kirkman ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74

Lazaretto — Luke Morina ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

Euphoric — Makayla Thornton ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

The Death of My Nickelodeon — Luke Morina ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

An Inevitable Choice — Peyton Hope ’19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81

Stop the Car — Sophie Jacobson ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .82

The Sun Inside, A Sestina — Alice Yang ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .84

The Puzzle of Life — Brian Peccie ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .87

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Art IndexEllie Whitmore ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 10

Andi Chen ’16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 12

Joe Henry-Penrose ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 14

Ellie Whitmore ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 17


Emmaline Herring ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 20

Mila Colizza ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 22

Kayla Kirven ’16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 23

Katie Bonner ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 24


Alice Yang ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 29

Elise Turrietta ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 30


Athena Michaels ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 34

Riley Fulmer ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 36

Sophie Jacobson ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 39

Mary Stuart Elder ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 40



Beth Lloyd ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 49

Tai Jeffers ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 49

Hannah Towler ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 49

Haley Edmonds ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 50

Taylor Wing ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 52

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Tracey Whalen ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 54


Claudia Woods ’17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 58


Alice Yang ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 60

Elise Turrietta ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 63


Braden McMahon ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 67

Michael Frazier ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 68



Sarah Woodard ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 74

Alex Washington ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 75

Lucy Foreman ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 76

Sarah Werner ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 78

Alice Yang ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 80



Alice Yang ’16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 86

Tori Walker ’18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 88




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HOW THE LEAVES FALL

I know how the leaves fallWar-torn leaves that tumble down.One leaf left on the treeThe one who hung on the hardest stays. I know the struggles of that leaf. I know what happened, but can I imagine?Blood red, shriveled, cut down from the skies above. He says how he feels. But no words can explain what he has gone through. All alone, only one left on the tree. What will he do?What will we do?

In memory of all Holocaust victims

Nathan Tenfelde ’21

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The Exile

I left my sweetest soldier to go sailing across the seaThough flowers bloomed and beetles buzzedThere I could not stand to be

I worked for hours on my island sitting in the westPlucking feathers and butterfly wings for my king to seeHypothetical horrors forever clawing at my chest

I received letters from my soldier when the sky was drenched with redWritten in her curled script and adorned in her family’s crestThough her words were gentle they did little to ease my dread

She told tales of made-up magpie dragons waiting at the harbor to whisk me awayTrying to plant seeds of shining thought into my shy headBut all I could see was the ragged beast turning towards his new prey

I sent letters back, of course, laden with pressed flowersI hoped the goldenrod would reach her by the break of dayFor I alone, it seemed, knew of its potential powers

She returned my nervous musings quickly, telling me to cease my fearSaying that she and her knights were never ones to cowerStill, I wished so desperately that she was near

We exchanged our little letters for months on endUntil one day, things ceased to be so clearThat scratched script was not that of my beloved friend

She insisted it was, in many a letterBut for all her insisting, she could scarcely pretendI knew her hands did not tremble so like aspen leaves blown by foul weather

I sent her Christmas roses that I knew she couldn’t resistTo catch her eye, I also sent her little white locks of heatherThough, I could only see the metal-forged fennel wrapped around her wrist

If she could hardly write on her own, how is she supposed to defend a king?She’ll try to lead her knights, regardless, and this time the enemy won’t missTheir hated blades will scar her shoulder with only a single swing

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The Exile

I left my sweetest soldier to go sailing across the seaThough flowers bloomed and beetles buzzedThere I could not stand to be

I worked for hours on my island sitting in the westPlucking feathers and butterfly wings for my king to seeHypothetical horrors forever clawing at my chest

I received letters from my soldier when the sky was drenched with redWritten in her curled script and adorned in her family’s crestThough her words were gentle they did little to ease my dread

She told tales of made-up magpie dragons waiting at the harbor to whisk me awayTrying to plant seeds of shining thought into my shy headBut all I could see was the ragged beast turning towards his new prey

I sent letters back, of course, laden with pressed flowersI hoped the goldenrod would reach her by the break of dayFor I alone, it seemed, knew of its potential powers

She returned my nervous musings quickly, telling me to cease my fearSaying that she and her knights were never ones to cowerStill, I wished so desperately that she was near

We exchanged our little letters for months on endUntil one day, things ceased to be so clearThat scratched script was not that of my beloved friend

She insisted it was, in many a letterBut for all her insisting, she could scarcely pretendI knew her hands did not tremble so like aspen leaves blown by foul weather

I sent her Christmas roses that I knew she couldn’t resistTo catch her eye, I also sent her little white locks of heatherThough, I could only see the metal-forged fennel wrapped around her wrist

If she could hardly write on her own, how is she supposed to defend a king?She’ll try to lead her knights, regardless, and this time the enemy won’t missTheir hated blades will scar her shoulder with only a single swing

I could not think in the daytime and I could not sleep at nightMy hands twisted in my sheets, fearing what news her next letter would bringMy mind only saw the beasts and berserkers that she would have to fight

Her letter did not come in the morning and it had not come by noonI begged the empty air to tell me everything would be all rightBut, my only companion in my panicked pacing was the slowly rising moon

It came when I watched butterflies, and I found I could no more pluck their wings for prizesThe writing was not hers and to this I could not attuneI only hoped the letter held no more dark surprises

“My Lady is ill,” or so it readI scratch at my nails and bite my lips as my fear rises“She wants to see that exile,” and so it said

I stared at the misplaced paper with the hated scriptThough it was only parchment, it sat in my hands like leadThrough my wavering heart had the scribe’s words ripped

I wanted to send my letter quickly, praying I would not be too lateor, at least, I hoped, it would not see her in her cryptA scribe’s reply was now the only thing I could await.

What traitorous gods tapped the poison from my mind and forced it down her throat?I ran to the beach in search of some ship, my heart fluttering in a butterfly’s rateHow can I protect her with only the words that I wrote

I pushed through blackberry brambles that ripped my skin and hair I wished no more to send her just one more final noteI reached the beach to see my soldier’s ship, but no fanfare

“Exile, come not nearer,” I heard the guard sayFor all my troubles, I had thought, fate has hardly been fair“We will take your letter and leave by close of day”

I saw the ship sail towards the sun, away to my friend who is illshe will be okayThat’s what I tell myself, but some thoughts I can not kill

Caitlin Fisher ’17

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She said,“cash or credit Sir, cash or credit Sir,” and suddenly she’s diaphanous, an opia stare cutting through her and into the tabloids, reflecting off the white tiles and the through the roofbeams, the brown freckles crawling off her cheeks, off her cheeks, down her shoulders, her arms, crossing the plastic card, the extension of an

arm outstretched, onto his skin, onto his skin as they crawled up his arms and over his shoulders, my shoulders, and into his bright burning face, the white teeth becoming whiter and whiter, his eyes, my eyes, becoming bigger, becoming bigger and I and he and she saw them travel over his head and onto his head and it was beating it was beating, rubatosis coming over and over and over and around the freckles and he panted without sweat coming down his face and he watched the plastic fall away onto the ground, like a fever, or a daydream. “You dropped something sir, you dropped something sir, you dropped something sir,” and he wanted her teeth to shatter in her mouth, or to crawl back inside, back inside beneath her freckled face, for the green lines of the checkout counter calculator to break the binding glass for the lights to shatter for the magazines to rip themselves in two and the tiles to fall from nothing. Absolutely nothing. I and he and possibly she also knew that he, only he, not I, not she, definitely not she, would be dark, so dark, so dark without the tiles without the light without the checkout counter and with the freckles that he finally saw the plastic card on the tile and picked it up, softly, quietly, and uninterrupted.

Henry Trinder ’16

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The Silence Around Me

There is a muteness to the room around me. It’s calm, it’s sleepy, and it whispers sweet nothings to my heart. Suddenly I am whisked into the hospital.

I watch a woman’s mouth as she places two new companions into my ears. “It will progressively become worse as you mature, but this will at least help.” The rhythm of the keys. The banging of my heels. The sound of, “I love you.”

There is a silence to the room around me. Someone asks a question, “Excuse me?”, I answer. They repeat the question, “Excuse me?”, I ask. This time they blink, stare, and reply, “Nevermind.”

There is a silence to the room around me. I imagine the whisper, the shuffle, the sound of his laugh across the room. I must remember. I must remember the friend who sit close by and tries to understand, the teacher who supports my every need, and the guardians who make sacrifices for the price of hearing just enough to get by.

I try to explain a story that is so sacred to my heart. A story that most everyone will never understand. A story that influences my mind, my body, and my soul.

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I explain this story to my blonde, curly haired friend. Ironically, he overhears.“Hello,” he says. “Hello,” he repeats. “Hello,” he disrupts thrice. Finally, I understand he is speaking to me. I stare into his icy blue, ignorant eyes. “Yes,” I manage to whisper. “Can you hear me?” he asks. “Yes,” I quiver. “Then you can hear.” he states.

There is a silence to the world around me.

The music fills my soul as I dance among the clouds. The vision of the Eastern Shore sunset fills my heart with joy. The smell of Gidou’s Bania waters my mouth. The feel of his hand against my skin sparks chills down my spine. The words “I love you.” overpower the silence around me.

Claudia Woods ’17

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A Conversation

Clouds clashed against the foothills of the Yunnan Province as my Naxi host and I shared our stories. The sky drifted endlessly all day. We talked joyfully, enthralled with our curious circumstance. She didn’t speak English. I didn’t speak Naxi. I wish I could have. Pablo Vazquez ’16

An Elegy to Sustenance

The Lamb has broken the third sealBehold the third Horseman. He who sits with his scalesTo rip the seeds from the landAnd food from the hand.

The golden sheafs of wheat no longer exist. Fertile soil drained of its storesNo longer to nourish plant or soul. Dry and dusty hoof prints yield Coming death and starvation from the field.

The bread of life does not sustainOil and wine his judgement does not sway. Scales tipped to starve the path to hell

The third of the four has done his deedDesiccation of man by Famine’s steed.

Dan Collela ’16

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About Yesterday

I saw an umbrellamade up of swiss cheeseand a scoliotic cane.

I think he wishedto keep the rain outby holding a pair

of hands highabove his head.It wasn’t working.

Henry Trinder ’16

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I take pride in my Texan heritage. My father grew up in a rural one- horse town called Sandy, population 200, approximately three hours away from the Dallas- Fort Worth area. Originally, our family humbly raised hogs, but after Smithfield swept the arena of all things swine, we switched to raising cattle for beef. Growing up, my father was the tenth child out of thirteen. He, along with his seven brothers, worked the ranch every day. I always joke that my eldest uncle is old enough to be my grandfather. As one can imagine, my father’s side of the family is huge, and every time I visit the ranch I always meet new relatives. My father is the only brave one from the family who left Texas and traveled up “North” to Virginia to pursue his dreams.

My grandfather, who was part Comanche, worked as a butcher earnestly. When he died after a long battle with Alzheimer’s, nearly 500 mourners attended his funeral. Unfortunately, I deeply regret not being present. I can only hope that my character and integrity will someday be as great as his. My family’s roots run deep like the abundant Texas blue bonnets that bloom in the early springtime, transforming the pastures into rolling blue fields.

The realization of how I miss Texas becomes apparent when I’m physically there, strolling through the pastures, catching up with cousins and eagerly

devouring my aunts’ home cooked southern meals. The fondness takes me back to my younger years. The fierce prairie winds whip at my face undoing two tightly plaited French braids. Nightly the winds hit and howl against the ranch house like angry apparitions. During the day, my younger sister and I see about the chickens, newly born piglets and calves, exploring the countryside, until the hot Southwestern sun retires for the evening. We play Texas Safari and go mudding in pastures, splashing

through the mud and muck, living life on the edge while sipping on

Big Red soda water all day. During the dry

season, the grass turns brown and

the mesquite shrubs cling close to the ground, resembling Africa. In an instant I am transported

to my African and Native

American safari. I feel close to my

ancestry as I keep a lookout for lions,

zebras and bison. By the end of the day we are covered

from head to toe in several thick layers of dust, turning our dark hair prematurely gray with grime. We bathe at night, only to become as grimy as we were the day before, but I would not trade the dirt and heat for a single thing.

Kayla Kirven ’16

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The Soldier’s March

My mother taught me to walk like a soldier:chest out, chin up, spine-

straight as a rod andmarch to the war drums.

Do you hear them? That pounding, poundinghum of bullets and shouts of,

“Please do not shoot!”Cries from children fighting a

centuries old war that should be sittingin a coffin, buried long ago,

but has been kept alive. And if you listen,

you can hear it’s claws dragged through the shadows, as it settles in the corners of rooms.

My father taught me to be a warrior,but I became a worrier,

worried that this war has finally caught up to me. The warning shots have been fired:

mocking words in passing, light laughs that shouldnot have been.

Out of the trees, a cascade of black birds sweep, and in their shadows I can see

the front line of children, arms up, don’t shoot,

standing instead of carrying the weight of a bayonet on their shoulders, but there are heavier things to bear.

They call us the model minority for the spark in our eyes, the dirt under our nails

because American soil has become too precious not to claw for. And these nails, these hands, my hands, are itching for war

though some of the drums beat, “this is not your war, this is not your war,”

and my heart and lungs are screeching, “this is not your war, this is not your war.”

But the siren’s call to arms has never sounded sweeter. It must be the note of desperation

the plea for kindness, the universal draft that fills the undertones of this world.

Whose war is it anyway if not everyone’s?

Alice Yang ’16

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the third day

On the final day,the wind returnedcarrying with it the noisesof his former dreams.

Distant showersswept across his souland the world itselfgrew quiet.

Time passed ever so slowlyand had receded behind the moonas she cried in his hands,becoming merely something that never was.Something that once had meaning.Then the silent explosion.

His knees hugged the grass,as the home he had builtacross his spiritfell and crumbledaround him.His shattered abode,along with its gardenwas no more.The road aheadis all that was.

The echoes of that lonesome visitor and the final beautiful summerreverted through the windowthat he once looked through.

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Life had bent itself in halfand the end was metwith the beginning.

At the end of his breath, the voice spoke.

After this long night,the dawn will not heal you.The sky will carry us all away.You must ceasefrom chasing after that shadow.

Look around you,

these are your last known surroundings.The wind will sing again,but for nowit will carry you back to the oceans.

All is wild, All is silent.

He lowered his arms,and died with the sun.

Jacob Gusentine ’16

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I believe in childish joy. It gives me the ability to battle conflict amidst life’s adversity. I’m alive and perceptive at parks. An educated Mexican-American, I can tell when someone is rather intolerant. Some affluent white families do not like rowdy Spanish-speaking children—namely, my six year-old cousin Kevin. Like all small children, Kevin ran around Tidewater Park disregarding the adult world. Noise, color, and squirrels swirled around his head as he jumped and dove into the grass. He heard every bird screech, saw every shade in the sky, and chased every butterfly—all at once. Kids master awareness and live day-to-day, enriching their lives with the world’s joy. Unfortunately, Kevin had a soccer ball, and a family close by didn’t enjoy fútbol enthusiasm. Three little boys, no older than Kevin, sat neatly in a circle. Their blue, ironed Polo shirts matched their eyes. The mother read. A pedagogic silence burdened the air. It was Kevin’s responsibility to pierce the monotonous drone of education and play with three new friends. I watched in silence, always at arm’s length. I saw Kevin’s innocent

jubilance. He was wild but always loving and caring. The dry-cleaned mother stood up and raised her contemptuous chin high in the air. She didn’t welcome the rude interruption. Transformed into a Russian ballerina, I swooped in, grabbed Kevin (and the ball), danced out, and nodded to the women. My gesture simply stated: I apologize—please keep reading. Kevin wrestled in my arms, confused. Thankfully a squirrel ran by and he flew off. He didn’t register any bitterness. He was sad, but only for an instant. Nothing really dampened his spirit. As a child, he sees colors, hears laughter, and feels excitement. There’s nothing bad. I’m different. Somewhere amidst it all, change occurred.Meanings grew. As a man, I see obstacles, I hear bigotry, and I feel pain. Most men do, most grown-ups do. It’s an interesting juxtaposition, that of child and man. Joy gives me hope to realize that life’s a beautiful pattern of just that: interesting juxtapositions. A man is a child who sometimes just forgets to have an open heart.

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Lovely

the boy catches a frisbee that misses and hits him in the face she loveshis smile the toothy beam that permeates every brain cell she has lostwith no way to sleep dreaming of what could be betweenthe boy and the girl the girl who wrote a letter

she wrote the letter because he is a writer a great writer a musician really and she loveshis songs which he sends late at night while she’s asleep he callsher phone whose music library he liked her ave maria a debate they had long ago but we sang biebel not schubert obviously biebl not schubert

it wasn’t a real debate between the two they agreed as they always do because they are indeed the same person two hearts who met by chance were partnered by chancewhat a chance to love someone to love him to love her to throw a frisbee into a lovely, loving face

Hannah Wheaton ’16

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Constellations

He is a constellation brought to lifeCarved greek marble set among the starshis tongue is clad with silver his hair shines bright as a sparrow’s feather but when he bleedsand oh, how he bleedshis blood runs red as any other’s

There are demons in this world, you seewho know it’s easy for meto mistake his smile for a sunriseSpectors who seek to destroy such lightfor who in the world is more beautiful that he?

I’d bind his heart with mineto save his from the world’s spiteI’d breathe life into his lungs as if they were my ownBecause no monster is as fearsomeAs a world deprived of his graceNo beast could be as brutalAs a day without his heartbeatFor he is love, laughter, and goodness untaintedThe dawn that rises radiantlyOver every day and daunting night

Caitlin Fisher ’17

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We are often all alone.Not by society, by choice.We feed off of ourselves,The sound of our own voice.

We do not need an outletbecause internally we charge.This independence of beingfrees our minds at large.

People are not just numbers,a group just used for show.We choose our friendships wisely.This is a subject I know.

We are made to feel ashamedthat we don’t crave for company.But no party or social gathering

INTROVERSION

35

can beat the fun I have with me.You think we’re social outcasts,anti-social and no fun.But when the crowd clears out,can you have a party just for one?

Anonymous

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The Lady is Waiting

the lady is waitingshe only has until the man finishes shavingbut she hasn’t lived with men much of her lifeshe doesn’t know how long he will takeshe doesn’t know if they ought to buy the house together or if she has time to keep waiting

she knows sometimes he has little nicks around his jaw afterwardbut she doesn’t know if these mishaps take more timeor if he finishes faster than most menshe realizes she doesn’t know a lot of thingsshe doesn’t know if he’ll want her to iron his shirts

she knows she ought to make dinner for him every nightand when he gets home late from work,she ought to stand up from the couch and reheat his food,but she doesn’t know if he will eat at the office on those nightsor if he’ll be sad when he pictures his silly wife eating alone

she knows she doesn’t have much time leftshe’s been waiting and she’s heardhim turn the sink on a few times to rinse his razor cleanand she doesn’t know what she’s going to say when he’s finishedand he stands in front of her in the bedroomdoes she touch his shaven face?

Sophie Jacobson ’16

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A Quick Science Lesson

At the risk of sorely disappointing him with my lack of physics knowledge, I

dedicate this piece to Dr. Manion.

I never quite got the swing of physics. But I remember this: the law of conservation of energy. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It’s funny how everything has led up to this. These twelve years behind us, our entire high school career, all to this. An ending is never an ending, isn’t that what they say? An ending is always a beginning. The world is so much larger than anything we could have ever imagined, and somehow my fingers can never stretch to touch both oceans on the Atlas. But know that in this vast expanse of the galaxy, we exist. And of course this year will come to an end (all great things do), but that energy, the ghost of the year remembered, will exist in our suitcases, under plane seats, in the distance between us, large enough for the world to sigh.

Alice Yang ’16

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Grand Canyon

You could tell they loved each other, you know?

This wasn’t the same as like

drunk love

or forced love

or two people in a relationship that you know isn’t working out

and they know too, but it’s all they have left

not that love

Sometimes two people click

And it makes you angry

because you know you’ll never find anything remotely similar

or

It makes you desperately search for “The One”, you know?

They probably met locally, you know?

Some coffee shop or small town diner.

and they started talking

41

that was that

you could have bet money on the wedding

But it’s also dangerous

When two people just-just work like that

they become two halves of one entity

inseparable isn’t just a cute word for them

it’s a way of life.

The death of these relationships is not one death

It’s half of one

the other half still screaming and crying

tied to a corpse they can never forget

and never bury

From what I heard, he died in his sleep. On their wedding night.

Michael Parsons ’16

42

The sun stagnantly burns its mark on the black concrete parking

lot. Past the lot of cars (and there are only two), I am gazing out onto the L-shaped pool. My red and navy Red Cross bikini bottoms are still wet from getting in the water to vacuum the pool floor and scrub the tiles. Ready for the day, I lean back in the white plastic chair I’m sitting in, temporarily forgetting its flimsiness.

I catch myself quickly, sure to not fall back in the chair and embarrass myself in front of Pete, who is sitting to my right. Pete is tall and lean and I think he’s about twenty-three. He’s the manager of this pool. Pete gives me a small smile like I did fall over in the chair even though I didn’t, and I blush a little. Not that you’d be able to

tell; my cheeks are already burnt rosy from all the hours I’ve spent sitting at the pool this summer.Today Pete and I are guarding together at Heritage Park, a set of vaguely dumpy apartment buildings. In the center is the small pool. I decided to become a lifeguard at the beginning of the summer and now, here I am, spending each day, eight hours a day, at Heritage Park, watching people come in and out, watching different lifeguards casually come and go. That’s how I came into the job- casually, I mean. No big decision, just me apathetically choosing how to spend my summer. The kind of decision that comes before an “I guess”. I am still looking at Pete when the pool gate clicks open and the first

LIFEGUARDNoa Greenspan ’18

43

patrons of the day walk in. It is a bald gentleman and his tiny son. I recognize them; they are frequenters of the pool. They are British, as Pete finds out when the little boy, who reminds me of a young Harry Potter, bids us good morning. I wonder how they came, all the way from England, to live in Heritage Park apartment buildings. The father nods hello to us. His name is Burton; I know this because when the patrons come in, we have to take their pool passes and information and put them in a box till they leave. I want to say “Good morning, Burton,” but for some reason this feels like an intrusion; he has never actually told me his name. His little boy, tightly gripping the noodles, gets in the pool as Burton leaves the front desk to teach his son how to kick.

Next, in comes a fat woman with pink cheeks whose messy, curly hair has started to go grey at the roots. Her freckle-faced son bounces ahead of her through the gate and cannonballs into the pool. Pete has climbed in the high lifeguard chair and I am still by the front. From the minute I take a good look at the woman I can see the tired, angry malice in her face as she walks up to me. I smile.

“I’m not leaving my pool pass with you,” she bites with belligerence, before I can even say hello. She says it like I’ve done something to her, though I’ve never seen her before in my life.

“I need your information,” I say meekly. Rude people have come in before, but not like this. She acts like

the tension between us is personal. The woman proceeds to show me her card briefly, before snapping it back into her wallet. She walks away from the front desk and takes a seat at a table on the pool deck.

My chest feels tight all of a sudden, and I want to go after her and demand her pass. It seems like a minor injustice, but I’m angry. Indignant. It’s my job to say whether she must leave her pool pass. Mine, not hers. Sitting down again, I watch the pool. The British boy is kicking about in the shallow end and the angry woman’s son, in the deep end, has a glint in his eye, like he knows he is about to do something. A lump forms in my throat. Watching, I see him go up to Burton’s son and splash him. The boy yells stop; he is a weak swimmer. Pete blows his whistle. The woman doesn’t even look up.

Now I’m mad. I walk quickly over to Pete, still on stand. “Should I say something to her about her son?” I ask, hoping his answer is yes and he makes the decision for me. After all, I’ve only just begun working here and he is the manager.

Pete doesn’t. Instead, he looks over at me and in his regularly aloof mannerism says, “It’s your call.”

I look at the woman and sense her anger and am disheartened. It’s okay for now, I think to myself. I guess.

45

i don’t think i ever said thank you for it alltor when you told me to tip 20 percent or not go out to eator when i woke up in the hospital to your hand intertwined with mineor for the sleepless nights full of nightmares or feversi never said thank youfor the letters you wrote when words just weren’t enoughor for the time you spent in the car, all the while listening to me stress about how late we would beor for dealing with heartbreak in all its forms, and reminding me how strong i wasi don’t think i said thank younot because i didn’t think itbut because those two words seemedmicroscopic to what you deserve. and so as we coast down the highway, in the snow, humming along to jack johnson, thank you

46

An Absent Woman

the tired man with the tired eyes in the burnt yellow suithe fights fires while his life burnshis wife is gone but sits before him watchas she scorns the world around her she wants out

the angry girl in her angry universe no time for dolls andgames she never winsher father’s words melt like frost on hot gravelcrunching comments from her mother barely there

the chatty aunts their brother lost their familiesnew and paleand betterbetter plan a lunch brother’s not well he works too muchhis wife is losing her mind his daughter’s too fragileshe has no backbone none of them really dowe must fix this we must get the scotch tape

the sour grandmother her smell comes into the room before she doesher love takes shape in the form of a switch from the mossy oakin the back she tells her children to pick one for their beatingsit’s a dance every time a chaseOK everything is just OK she always smilesher only son lives far awaythat woman took him from his mother how dare she

the woman is a blank slate a face without features justa voice barely heard above the din of distant familiarity she encounters withher husband’s family -- too big -- does she even exist her face isdark as the new moon night but fades to nothing in the mirror like a vampire without the perksthe truth too crude for her man in the burnt yellow suit with the nosethey all have the nose hers is not quite the same

the burning husband and his opaque wife in their dirty sedan with the rusty rimsand brand new radio that pipes the music of the little old girl’s dreams just Luther Vandross and his voice like crushed velvet it gives her refuge from this bottomless pit but the red numbers glare at her11:38 they’re late for sandwiches and gossip and judgment

47

An Absent Woman

the tired man with the tired eyes in the burnt yellow suithe fights fires while his life burnshis wife is gone but sits before him watchas she scorns the world around her she wants out

the angry girl in her angry universe no time for dolls andgames she never winsher father’s words melt like frost on hot gravelcrunching comments from her mother barely there

the chatty aunts their brother lost their familiesnew and paleand betterbetter plan a lunch brother’s not well he works too muchhis wife is losing her mind his daughter’s too fragileshe has no backbone none of them really dowe must fix this we must get the scotch tape

the sour grandmother her smell comes into the room before she doesher love takes shape in the form of a switch from the mossy oakin the back she tells her children to pick one for their beatingsit’s a dance every time a chaseOK everything is just OK she always smilesher only son lives far awaythat woman took him from his mother how dare she

the woman is a blank slate a face without features justa voice barely heard above the din of distant familiarity she encounters withher husband’s family -- too big -- does she even exist her face isdark as the new moon night but fades to nothing in the mirror like a vampire without the perksthe truth too crude for her man in the burnt yellow suit with the nosethey all have the nose hers is not quite the same

the burning husband and his opaque wife in their dirty sedan with the rusty rimsand brand new radio that pipes the music of the little old girl’s dreams just Luther Vandross and his voice like crushed velvet it gives her refuge from this bottomless pit but the red numbers glare at her11:38 they’re late for sandwiches and gossip and judgment

the chatty aunts harp at their brother’s wifeher dirty car and aging eyes don’t the light thank godit’s light outside to force the sunglasses onto her face her smile stretched to a 10the repugnance of the smell her mother-in-law approaches a pack of camels hangingin the pocket of her red checkered house dress

cracked, dry hands connected to the dryest of souls reach for the potato saladfor the sandwiches roast beef she hates roast beef she knowsshe’s mentioned it beforethe others choose not to listen

the brilliance of the dialects, that wry Brooklyn accent ringslike the absent woman’s death knell shrieking laughs, smiling musclespulled tighter across delicate cheekbones her voice is foreign different “not one of us”

“STOP at full, you’re already getting hippy”an aunt’s words reach out and pinch the angry little girl’s cheeks with sharp forcethe aunt swells with laughterthe absent woman says nothing as her daughter’s face grows overcastwith shadows of shame

the ride home is quick and painless like death that long inevitable sleepthese empty shells so devoid of emotionor are they full yet bottled up within? who’s to saypeering out from her doorless cagethe woman’s eyes have already packed up and vanished

Dominique Manuel ’16

48

Porto, Portugal

Cobblestone alleys twist like ivyA maze of once bold, now faded buildings.Unseen beauties and late-night meetingsThumb-printed into their facadeJewels encrusted in a fading, overgrown templeWashed away by dirt and salt and centuries.

Six p.m.:The rum-soaked sun sinksLike a mixer into A sherry ocean to the west, andJewel tones and gold burstLike bolts of brightly painted canvasHeld taut over the city As though Picasso had paintedA woman on those clay rooftops inStreaks of ruby and emerald and Tyrian purple

Seven p.m. now,And fat fingers of light tickle the riverWith marigold, amber and ochreWhile the darkening sky is dotted with steel clouds.

Clicking heels from no-matter-what shoe,Tap at the deepening cracksAnd lengthening shadows,

A night-time “hello.”They peer through stone windows,Through keyholes with eyes,Past crescents of moonlight,On statues, petrified.

Morning knocks sleepy and blue and translucent. It is six a.m. and the sky is not yet bright and blonde. The streetlamps close their one yellow eye, The shadows of statues puddle down at their feet. The night is declawed and defanged in the morningThe predator a house-cat again.

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Seven a.m.:The two sets of bare feet peer out from the bed,As the lazy city takes its time to awaken. The river reflects the sunlight in its dark mirror,And the buildings burst bright with color again.

Amalia Gelpi ’16

the butterflylady

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The butterfly lady used to be there every morning, And then was there to tuck us in at night.But one day we were given a fright,When she didn’t return and gave no warning. One day we saw her again and she was still adorning. However a bandana covered her bald head in the dull light. Though her eyes were still shining bright,Deep within her armor of steel, a treacherous battle was churning.

And then the rain came and washed her away, The sweet butterfly lady was gone. And as she was lowered deep into the ground,A thousand butterflies rushed in without making a sound. And I knew from that moment on, That my butterfly lady was going to be okay.

Shelby Brown ’19

51

53

She starts her sleep at the tip of her teeth. It rolls down rosy lips that breathe

A bow that shoots an arrow beneathThe sweaty rubbing limbs of sleep

A nautilus, a pain dismissed, A crooked, hidden, little wrist, Inside, beside her, blastocysts

Installed by lips she once had kissed.

An effluence as gilt as sun, A signal that it has begun.

An umber cradle, coral spun: A nature yet to be undone

Her sleep peaks pink and bright as juneBeneath pale eyelids curved like moons,

A fiddlehead, a swelling wombFire glowing in her golden room.

No sunlight greets her blinking eyesBut links of light that tantalize.

Her bloated belly, milky thighs:The illness has metastasized

Amalia Gelpi ’16

METASTASIS

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Place of Rest

Come traveler and rest your weary head. Partake of the pace from the golden raysUse our silky leaves as a godly bedRest here until gone are the harshest daysThe song of the wind is tranquility As you let your thoughts drift away with itYour time, traveler, will be leisurelyYou have come here with a reason, so sit, And we will whisper the stories of oldThe knowledge of an ancient originThat many a time had been heard and toldA long lost scribble, outside the marginYou have found what you earnestly search forbut you must not go, at least stay some more.

Nathan Williams ’19

57

Wonderland

She had a voice of velvet:one that made you think of cats purring, ermine shrugs on the shoulders of stars, your favorite quilt.You could tellthat she was meant to be heard.Her words were beautiful, but the texture of her voicelent even more radiance to the poetry gushing from her lipslike a waterfall.Cool and sweet and clearshe speaks,refreshing and rejuvenating.Vividly she conjuresmidnight traipsing across the sky,old scars beginning to convalesce, Love so pure it’s unrecognizable. I want to reach outand drag her back down tothe brown earth;maybe she’ll make it green again: the green of the underside of a cricket:soft and vulnerable.But she lives in a wonderland, and no realm of mine is capableof containing her. Julie Luecke ’16

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Fall. Fall. Fall. Fall. Fall.

Wind make it fall. Crack.

The sky lit up.Crack it lit up again.

It waved it waved a lot and it waved so much it almost cracked like when you stick your hand out the window and then a car runs into it and your wrist

falls off Fall Fall Fall Who cares what happens if it lands on the wire we are leaving tomorrow no electricity fine by us this is fun to watch It’s raining right now the river is flooded How will the jeep get to the village? Will a

mother die trying to give birth? Or the farmer unable to bring his crops to the market Poor farmer, poor mother They will die you and I will die...one day right? Fall Fall Please tree fall One more big push from the sky and you

will die too tree. Stop.

The storm has ended and all is silent and peaceful in the beautiful village of Hinche.

THUNDERSTORM IN HAITIAneesh Dhawan ’16

59

A man scared of the devilHis fist hides him from from the heat

While he bound back, struggling to find his feetHe ain’t got nothing to revel

About, his life is so levelAlways filled with regret

Like he died a second time and in both afterlives he burned in the heat

But it’s not all bad thoughHe gets money from the man

His needs give him courage to embrace the fireHe’s walking a tight rope

Between the warm fur, and the horns of a ramBut it’s fine because the paycheck lets him do

what he desiresa second time and in both afterlives he burns

from the heatbut it’s not all bad though

he gets money from the manhis needs give him the courage to climb higher

he’s walking a tight ropebetween the comfy fur and the horns of a rambut it’s fine because the paycheck lets him feed

his desires

Malcolm Schlossberg ’19

60

Where did the good times go?I ask everyday where my heart’s pleasure has gone, where he has gone. The more I ask the less I can say.The worst thing about the good times is you never know you’re in them until it’s over.Who knew heart’s-happiness helped to harvest pain. Pain slowly slithered in secretly seeking solely to take my sunshine. These rays so richly warm reigned down and I reveled unknowingly in those last lights.I had lost night’s light while counting the stars. He was gone before I knew to call for him. At that moment bigger brooding issues boiled over bringing me to rock-bottom. Happiness had freely fallen through my fingers. The sky-light does not shine as bright and the stars no longer twinkle.There is no way to feel content when life lacks his longing looks.Memories are all I have left but even those will fade with timeIt may soon seem like he was all a cruel, yet wonderful dream.

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NAOMI MITCHELL ’18

to haveloved once

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LAUGH LINESJaden Baum ’17

He cracks a joke,one he’s cracked so much

it barely holds itself togetherand his face contorts

into a quasi-grotesque maskof sheer childish joy.

The light in his eyessparks and doesn’t sputter and

long eyelashes press softly on his cheeks when his hilarity

becomes too much for his eyes to take inand they squeeze shut

and the contortion continues.

Glancing at the taut skinpulled over his cheekbones

I catch the tiny shadows skittering from ear to noseinfinitesimally light lines

like the aftermathof crumpling a newly torn sheet

of aluminum foil and attempting in vain to return it to its initial glassy surface.

Those lines whisper soft remindersthat in the crevices of the deepest wrinkles

that fold furrows in browsand shoot daggers from eyes

lie the over-told jokes of a well-spent youth.

64

He holds his cello the way a woman would want to be heldBecause he’s looking at her--Her tender lips, her light, green eyes.

He holds his cello the way a woman would want to be heldBecause he’s listening to her--Her quivering violin, nestled atop her budding breasts.

He holds his cello the way a woman would want to be heldBecause he’s longing for her--Her gentle hands, her warm embrace around his neck.

He holds his cello the way a woman would want to be heldBecause he’s lost her--Her verdant love, her meretricious cadence.

He holds his cello the way a woman would want to be heldBecause it’s time for the soft refrain.

Pablo Vazquez ’16

66

A Springtime Encounter

I think I still need time to healThe sight of your face blank, your darkened arms bareWho could foresee the way I feel?

The waterfalls that April brings, my sadness they sealI feared drowning in the wet airI think I still need time to heal

Your brilliant eyes, doll-like, unrealYour tiny mouth utters little. When you finally spoke you spoke with careWho could foresee the way I feel?

My father knew you once, we three spokes of a wheel You with him I’d gladly shareI think I still need time to heal

Your favorite mangoes, picked long after the snow’s first meltToo sweet to be sad eating themI think back and wonder who could ever foresee the way I felt?

The stranger before me turns; it’s not your faceI swore it was you.I think I still need time to healHow could I foresee the way I feel?

Dominique Manuel ’16

69

picture of bliss

not a single person went unphotographed that night; the ladies with their brilliant pearls and each a shining smile, and men with twinkling eyes and pressed collars white; the camera keeping memories alive for all the while. we danced until the stars comparedto our sparkling cheerwhen each dance was done not a person daredadmit the night was over, the great big world brought us fear. it was a night of firststhe memories still remainthere was nothing to lose, no hurtsonly love to gain

now I stand with no regret, recalling that love years later,oh how happy I was that night, there was nothing greater

Madeleine Munn ’19

71

Paint Cans

I watched you.Through the blinds, I saw youSlinking in the backyard, suspicious of neighbors, afraid of ghosts.I watchedYou unlock the shed and hesitate.Through the blindsI saw you breathe and mumble something,In front of our shed, a secret incantation you kept from me all these years.You slid your palms down along your jeans, erasing sweat, steadying yourself.And then, you opened the doors and a thousand things scattered inside. Dried grass.A cricket.Memories—Everything limned by that early morning sun.And I watched you.Move aside.An airless pool toy.Rusty hedge trimmers.Fear.From the top shelf, you took down the paint cans one by one:Kitchen Yellow.Dining Room Green.Bathroom Red.Until you found it.Bobby’s room, it said.You carried the can out of that grimy, dusty shed, and set it down on the ground, looking back at me looking at you from the blinds.It’s time, I whispered to myself, knowing you could not hear. And there, in that morning light, a light that warmed our neighbors’ children, a light that would have made him happy, you worked the top off the can, carefully, lovingly.It gasped, as if revived. And you, you didn’t see me crying through the blinds.

Warren Warsaw

73

American Dream

I have an old soul.Nearly everyonehas had it before. Thomas Jefferson had my soul.He took it to Pariswhere it first knew love.Then Al Capone had my soul;he taught it seductionin smoky back rooms.

It’s been throughout the world,but for some horrendous reasonor another,it has spent its last few iterationsin the grand United States of America.It’s known the dregs of poverty,the luxury of wealthand yet has settled in with mebecause it thrived in neither extreme.

While the city of lovemay have seemed appealing,and it lost its virginity long ago,my soul has fallenhopelessly, irrevocablyin lovewith the American Dream

That’s a decent way to explain it,to explain why every time I look in his eyes,his blue eyes that mirror the sky(the only limit imposed on Americans),my soul clamors to leap out of me;he is my American dream.

Julie Luecke ’16

74

Too Many Lights

Madison Kirkman ’19

The New York city I know has too many lights,Too many billboards that is. Looking left and right, it never stops. Entertaining yet nauseating. The bright night seems to be screaming at me in the dark, Telling me to shop there, go here, see this. The big apple never falls asleep, Never gets the rest it deserves. Why?Busy streets filled with people from all over the world, They come to see the city that is described to them. The city that never stays quiet. We dim the lights for showtime, New York turns them on. Therefore, I have some advice for the city, If I’m asleep, you should be too.

75

Lazaretto

I recline in the shade of this lonely island,Not because I’m comfortable, but because I’m accustomedTo the solitude of the last bastion of my sanity.Many vessels, from rafts to galleons, have anchored near my isleBut no captain has set foot on my shore.I have shouted to those afloat from the beach.My beachOn my island.The speck of nonexistence in the sea on insanity that I can truly call mine.I implore them to turn around, the plunderous pirates,To continue on to the next archipelago.The riches they seek are not here,Nor I the only isle.No lighthouse wardens my island,Nor does it bear gold.So why do sailors set their sights on my island?They gain nothing other than continuing their own cartography.I live on the isle to be alone,To experience I.But sometimes I wonder what really brought me here.Did some sailors leave me marooned?Or did I drift ashore alone?

Luke Morina ’16

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Euphoric

the soothing breath of wind sweeps upon her tranquil facedulcet notes of music promising happinessinfiltrate her mindillustrating a harmonious existenceinfused with the pungency of her surrounding aromasthe aura of her environment radiates serenityand in this momentshe exists in untroubled bliss

Makayla Thornton ’18

79

The Death of My Nickelodeon

Do you remember the times we shared together?Those moments, hours really, that we would sit across the breakfast tableThree thousand miles away from each other. We spent my childhood together, happy.

Everyday you taught me life lessons like how being the smartest kid aliveMeans nothing if you don’t have friends to share your creations withEven if they like llamas and superhero action figures. You also showed me how life is 100% how you view it throughAn aquatic jolly fry cook and his nincompoop best friend.

Everything I learned from those hours spent together Will stay with me until the director calls “cut.”Whatever happened to you?To us?

I grew up all right but you, your adolescence was rough, Full of tumult and confused introversion. You couldn’t figure out who you were. Even now your identity remains uncertain, Only pitiful outbursts and attempts to bring back yesterday.

I had to stop seeing youAfter you showed me the declassified guide of surviving school andHow to deal with my fairly odd parentsDespite our differences.

Why did you have to change?What we had back then was how it should be. Wrenching you from my heart and mind is impossible. Instead I have learned to dive through words and worlds toSate my sense of longing for what was.

May you live on as you are without me, Because what you were is gone. With these words I bury youAnd change the channel from 29.

Luke Morina ’16

81

An Inevitable ChoiceIt can be a choice:To end it for one’s self, Or for another.It can not be controlled. It is inevitable. Streaks of black and grey cover the sky. Only a thin beam of sunlightIs shown through the clouds. The vultures begin to swarm. They called for help. But the man passing by did not know this. For he did not understand the words of the vultures. The vultures and him were the only living things there. The sunlight beam reflected off of an object. The beam blinded him for a moment, This was the last moment he couldEver be truly, completely happy again. His eyes wandered to the ground and thenFocused on the silvery object, That was pierced into a woman’s spine. Steps closer but still a distance awayOnly revealed a hand wrapped around the knife.But the hand did not belong to the man passing.Front row at the funeral, He continuously wept. He missed the sound of her heart beating.

Peyton Hope ’19

82

Stop the Car

She waited. “We aren’t far now.” She pressed her lips into a smile and lifted her chin, bringing it slowly back down to her chest. “You know, that reminds me, I had a really odd dream last night,” she said. She’d actually had it a few days ago, but she didn’t see how telling him that would help anything. He didn’t respond. “You were in it, if you’re interested at all.” “Alright, what did I do?” He glanced at her. “Well there was water everywhere, in the dream, beautiful lakes

and rivers and streams everywhere we went. And it was all crystal clear, and I couldn’t help going in the water any time I saw it. And everyone was snorkeling, they all were. And there were animals in the water, but I wasn’t really scared of them at all, because any time they tried to come near me, I’d look at them to tell them to stop and they would. It was really wonderful, in that way.” Her voice had taken on a breathless quality as she spoke, and he’d become rather excited by it. “But once, and I had been in the water for a long time at this point, I looked over to see where you were, and you were just standing on the shore with your arms crossed. Like you were disappointed in me, for going in the water everywhere we went instead of staying with you. And I was so angry that you didn’t want to go in the water and snorkel with everyone else that I swam deeper and deeper out to sea until I could hardly see you anymore.” “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

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“What do I want you to do? What do I want you to do? What do I want you to do? What do I want you to do?” “I’ve never had a dream about you,” he said. “Well my dream wasn’t about - “Look. Honey, look,” she said, sitting up in her chair and pointing to something ahead of them on the side of the bridge. “What?” “That man is getting out of his car.” As they got closer, he saw that there was a man slamming the door of a minivan just ahead of them. The man wore cargo shorts and a loose shirt that clung to him as he ran to the side of the bridge. Just as she began to be afraid that he might throw himself over, he threw something into the water. A moment later, the minivan pulled back into traffic. “What was that about?” “What do you think it was? Could you see?” “No.” It looked smaller than a cell phone or a wallet, but she didn’t know what else he would have been angry enough to pitch into the ocean. She didn’t know what could have happened. She’d never seen anyone that angry. Her husband had never been as angry as that man. “I wonder what it was.” After a long silence, he spoke. “A wedding ring, maybe?” She turned away from him, twisting her red fingers and fighting back tears.

Sophie Jacobson ’16

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The Sun Inside, A Sestina

142 Melrose Way, a fractured spineof shingles and half-loneliness.June barefeet, your smile of light,making the lone firefly drunk inside.You’ve fallen into the well-laid traps,Now, dust will settle on the laughter at midnight.

The horses in my heart pound at midnight,and they’re saying you’ve lost your spinein the screaming trapsof houses, furniture woven of loneliness.They’re saying there’s an abyss insidethe cavity where there should be light.

But I know you and there is light and that lightis the light of two stars at midnight.Trust me, you have always been light inside.Don’t warm the notches of your spine,thinking it’s the unknowing loneliness,thinking you’ve fallen into the city’s traps.

And the traps,they scream, “Turn off the light,”and in the dark you think the lonelinessis a god and you worship his altar at midnight,But don’t fool yourself. Don’t fall here headfirst, spine-first, dissuaded with false faith soaking your eyes inside.

There’s a blinding brightness insideyour beautiful mind, is not slipping from its straps,loosening like the spineof old books when there’s too much sunlightthere’s not too much sunlight, only too much midnightthat you’ve fooled into believing it’s a wool coat of loneliness.

You cannot sew lonelinessto keep you warm inside.Do not wrap yourself in midnight.My quatrains, my words are not trapsto fall in, between your sun-painted freckles is lightand that means the gold hasn’t yet been peeled from your spine.

Laughter runs down your spine, none of that un-marvelous lonelinessbusiness that crept and thieved and snatched the light, that sunk the brilliant life inside,Let the world set its futile traps, now the sun rises at midnight.

Alice Yang ’16

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The Puzzle of Life

Rounded edges, sharpened corners,Curved crevasses and square hollows, Bent tabs and fixed blanks. Not one perfect piece.

Each is uniquely distorted,Yet the final combination is exquisite.Each has its flaws, But arranges to form a masterpiece.

Two grotesque parts uniteAnd merge with two more. What were many mere fragments, Is now an organized work of art.

Mistakes in puzzles are inevitable. Despite original considerations, Triangular protrusions do not fitInto rounded valleys.

Pythagoras will not solveFor the hypotenuse of global poverty.But basic calculus can offer the ideal curveFor the arc of the game-winning shot.

Pieces here, pieces there, Scattered across the table. Many possible connections, But only one possible outcome.

The strategy is application,Linking previous knowledge together to produce something greater. Failure will be more abundant than success But it all works out in the end.

Brian Peccie ’16

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JACOB GUSENTINE ’16

Jet fuel can’t melt steel beams.

CHARLOTTE ZITO

School: Bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils.

austin haycox ’16

Remember when we went to Germany?!

AMALIA GELPI ’16

Did you know that I’m vegan?

bryce land ’16

Senior quotes are due May 28th.

TORI WALKER ’18

Laughter is my favorite core workout.

sophie jacobson ’16

Is the homework gradedfor accuracy?

CHASE ELSER ’18

But what if you had stayed.

SARAH WERNER ’16

What is a six word memoir?

MARIAH MOSS ’18

All the stage is a world.

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LEAH COOPER ’16

I’m not Camille. You’re not funny.

EMMALINE HERRING ’16

I totally regret being artistic sometimes.

ADENA GORDON ’17

Forget the bad. Remember the good.

FIONA MURCHAKE ’18

Pretend one vegetable outweighs many desserts.

KATIE MANSOOR ’16

Is there a curve on this?

alice yang ’16

It all goes by too fast.

noa greenspan ’18

Writing: Putting myself in their shoes.

EMMA CHRISTOFFERSON ’18

Fake it til’ you make it.

BACK COVER FRONT COVER

SPIN

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rings, strings, and other things 2016

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