whs scrap paper 2014

36
Scrap Paper WHS 2014

Upload: eileen-farrell

Post on 07-Apr-2016

230 views

Category:

Documents


2 download

DESCRIPTION

The best of Westlake High School's art, prose and poetry.

TRANSCRIPT

Page 1: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Scrap Paper

WHS 2014

Page 2: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

With rich thoughts in mindhopeful for the wonderous-a dream passes by-Angela Mangione and Ally Falkenberg

Dreams explain our lifefrom our journeys from summerto the winter nights-Alina Alexander and Laura Bombace

The summer sun feels like a dream in this nightmarethat controls my life-Ryan Stasolla and Nick Stivaletti

Day and night I dream,dreams of sunshine and springtime-fantasy comes true-Samantha Howard and Melissa Presta

Drifting, dreaming in an endless sleep wishing for-winter to fall weak -Daisy Yunga and Megan George

A Note from the Editor Having worked extremely hard on this issue, I can safely say we in the literary magazine are tremendously proud of this publication. It took many hours and a great deal of difficulty on our part to deliver this bundle of remarkable writing and artwork into your hands. It was amazing as we saw the magazine take shape as we went from squabbling over fonts to putting the art and literature all together in this publication.

There are a few people without whom Scrap Paper would not have come to-gether. Ms. Abate’s, Ms. Frawley’s, Ms. Morris’s, and Ms. Papazian’s assistance with artwork is greatly appreciated and so are Mrs. Matthews’s submissions of student writing. We thank Mr. Schenker and Mr. Ferguson for their support of our club and publication. We at the literary magazine would also like to thank Mrs. Gelard for being our teacher advisor and Johnny Mittleman, our senior intern, and hope you all enjoy this edition of Scrap Paper.

Sincerely,Chloe Burns

Rachel Stasolla

Chloe Burns

Lauren Sugantino

Avery Lessing

Jacqueline Siry

Gabrielle Sanchez

Page 3: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

With rich thoughts in mindhopeful for the wonderous-a dream passes by-Angela Mangione and Ally Falkenberg

Dreams explain our lifefrom our journeys from summerto the winter nights-Alina Alexander and Laura Bombace

The summer sun feels like a dream in this nightmarethat controls my life-Ryan Stasolla and Nick Stivaletti

Day and night I dream,dreams of sunshine and springtime-fantasy comes true-Samantha Howard and Melissa Presta

Drifting, dreaming in an endless sleep wishing for-winter to fall weak -Daisy Yunga and Megan George

A Note from the Editor Having worked extremely hard on this issue, I can safely say we in the literary magazine are tremendously proud of this publication. It took many hours and a great deal of difficulty on our part to deliver this bundle of remarkable writing and artwork into your hands. It was amazing as we saw the magazine take shape as we went from squabbling over fonts to putting the art and literature all together in this publication.

There are a few people without whom Scrap Paper would not have come to-gether. Ms. Abate’s, Ms. Frawley’s, Ms. Morris’s, and Ms. Papazian’s assistance with artwork is greatly appreciated and so are Mrs. Matthews’s submissions of student writing. We thank Mr. Schenker and Mr. Ferguson for their support of our club and publication. We at the literary magazine would also like to thank Mrs. Gelard for being our teacher advisor and Johnny Mittleman, our senior intern, and hope you all enjoy this edition of Scrap Paper.

Sincerely,Chloe Burns

Rachel Stasolla

Chloe Burns

Lauren Sugantino

Avery Lessing

Jacqueline Siry

Gabrielle Sanchez

Page 4: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Sleeping through the night,a dream in cries ones own minduntil morning comes-Peter Vogel and Brian Bennett

In the shade of the treesGrass peeks through the melting snowDreaming of sunshine- Bridget McCusker

Where you can fall,Wherever you can aspire—Clouds cannot detain you. - Maria Ciraco

Lord of the Flies Chapter 13The Aftermath

Brianna Rodemeyer

At home our parents looked at us with horror and disgust, not knowing what happened to their little boys and what or who turned them into the monsters in front of their eyes. Even the doctors we saw didn’t know what they were looking at; they saw regret, depression, sadness, the drive to kill…and with that they sent us away. “Savages,” they said as we looked, acted, and sounded like animals fighting over the last piece of meat from a day’s hunt. Asylum doctors didn’t understand why we wouldn’t play with the other kids or act like one. Little did they know how our innocence was grabbed and shattered into a million pieces and thrown away into a forgotten box, forever not to be open again. “Why are we here!!” The screams coming from the mouths of the boys, my friends, my enemies. The ones who turned their backs on me when I was trying to help and keep the order. Now they scream and fight to keep whatever strain of sanity they have left, before that as well is taken from them forever. But they soon let go of that strain and enter the never ending darkness of their minds they can now call home. They will never find their way back. “This isn’t true.” Am I as well losing my mind and going with the other boys into this insane world? Or am I grabbing reality and finding my own way to still exist in the real world, the one of society and order? I don’t know any more if this is real life. Every day I can feel my life slip away from my hands, slowly, gradually I’m entering until one day I am gone. So who am I, who are You?

Matthew Marcella

Julianne Farella

Julianne Farella

Kelli KinlenNick Walsh

Page 5: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Sleeping through the night,a dream in cries ones own minduntil morning comes-Peter Vogel and Brian Bennett

In the shade of the treesGrass peeks through the melting snowDreaming of sunshine- Bridget McCusker

Where you can fall,Wherever you can aspire—Clouds cannot detain you. - Maria Ciraco

Lord of the Flies Chapter 13The Aftermath

Brianna Rodemeyer

At home our parents looked at us with horror and disgust, not knowing what happened to their little boys and what or who turned them into the monsters in front of their eyes. Even the doctors we saw didn’t know what they were looking at; they saw regret, depression, sadness, the drive to kill…and with that they sent us away. “Savages,” they said as we looked, acted, and sounded like animals fighting over the last piece of meat from a day’s hunt. Asylum doctors didn’t understand why we wouldn’t play with the other kids or act like one. Little did they know how our innocence was grabbed and shattered into a million pieces and thrown away into a forgotten box, forever not to be open again. “Why are we here!!” The screams coming from the mouths of the boys, my friends, my enemies. The ones who turned their backs on me when I was trying to help and keep the order. Now they scream and fight to keep whatever strain of sanity they have left, before that as well is taken from them forever. But they soon let go of that strain and enter the never ending darkness of their minds they can now call home. They will never find their way back. “This isn’t true.” Am I as well losing my mind and going with the other boys into this insane world? Or am I grabbing reality and finding my own way to still exist in the real world, the one of society and order? I don’t know any more if this is real life. Every day I can feel my life slip away from my hands, slowly, gradually I’m entering until one day I am gone. So who am I, who are You?

Matthew Marcella

Julianne Farella

Julianne Farella

Kelli KinlenNick Walsh

Page 6: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

A brighter futureBrown, black, whiteall together world peace is the dream-George Ittan and Megan George

If you have a choiceto keep dreaming or wake upwake up to achieve -Peter Anastasiou

A Night’s RestIt’s a dark nightmare—But I decide my own fate,And I WANT to dream…- Xavier Varga and Matthew Orlander

Look into the soulThe soul when I am sleepingEscape for the night- Donna Romandetto

Dreaming of summer—Warm sun beating on my skin,Tan—I’m a guido.- Tommy Leo, Jeannine Ederer, Amanda Papaleo

DreamA world of wonder—Falling out of realismTake the time to dream.- Jackie S and Kevin J

The colorless snow—Conceals the barren earth. So,I dream of summer!-Kate Pinchiaroli, Brianna Di Liberti

SummerGreen grass and sunshineTo dream a dream of summer,Is to hope and feel.- Aidan Glendon and Mike Matute

The Wakeful NightOnce, I sat awakeAnd dreamt throughout the night—Sleeping, while awake.- Chloe Burns

Ryan Lucey

Sabrina Galletti

Lauren Holzer

Justin Angeles

Ryan Quinlan

Nicole Bernard

Kat Villalobos

Sabrina Galletti

Page 7: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

A brighter futureBrown, black, whiteall together world peace is the dream-George Ittan and Megan George

If you have a choiceto keep dreaming or wake upwake up to achieve -Peter Anastasiou

A Night’s RestIt’s a dark nightmare—But I decide my own fate,And I WANT to dream…- Xavier Varga and Matthew Orlander

Look into the soulThe soul when I am sleepingEscape for the night- Donna Romandetto

Dreaming of summer—Warm sun beating on my skin,Tan—I’m a guido.- Tommy Leo, Jeannine Ederer, Amanda Papaleo

DreamA world of wonder—Falling out of realismTake the time to dream.- Jackie S and Kevin J

The colorless snow—Conceals the barren earth. So,I dream of summer!-Kate Pinchiaroli, Brianna Di Liberti

SummerGreen grass and sunshineTo dream a dream of summer,Is to hope and feel.- Aidan Glendon and Mike Matute

The Wakeful NightOnce, I sat awakeAnd dreamt throughout the night—Sleeping, while awake.- Chloe Burns

Ryan Lucey

Sabrina Galletti

Lauren Holzer

Justin Angeles

Ryan Quinlan

Nicole Bernard

Kat Villalobos

Sabrina Galletti

Page 8: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

DreamDreams stream through my mindSoothing, serene, lift my thoughtsStress leaves/ mind related- Lauren Unger and Mrs. Ryan

Dream As the sunset bleedsEndlessly across the sky—Summer dreams ignite.- Julia O’Connell and Caleigh Carr

Pleasant pictures ofWarm nights and colorful lights—Swimming through summer- Michelle Barbero and Jess Nguyen

PythagorasIn right triangles,The two short sides squared and summedIs the long side, squared.- Mr. Amann

The Window to Innocence Meenu Mundackal

Purity rolls in like the soft waves hitting a shoreWith delicacy and calmness, the waves advance further

The circular motion of waves like the cycle of innocenceBeginnings are innocent in that beauty resurrects

Innocence is brighter then the largest starsBut fragile that it could be broken in the hands of madness

It represents another realm of everyonePeeking through the gateway to the soul,

innocence paints a picture with a lack of recognition of evilHaving the ability to maintain order, civilization and immortality,

it creates a fine glass revealing the inner being

Ryan Quinlan

Charlotte Batten

Victoria Zefi

Dylan WilsonSashay McKenzie

Page 9: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

DreamDreams stream through my mindSoothing, serene, lift my thoughtsStress leaves/ mind related- Lauren Unger and Mrs. Ryan

Dream As the sunset bleedsEndlessly across the sky—Summer dreams ignite.- Julia O’Connell and Caleigh Carr

Pleasant pictures ofWarm nights and colorful lights—Swimming through summer- Michelle Barbero and Jess Nguyen

PythagorasIn right triangles,The two short sides squared and summedIs the long side, squared.- Mr. Amann

The Window to Innocence Meenu Mundackal

Purity rolls in like the soft waves hitting a shoreWith delicacy and calmness, the waves advance further

The circular motion of waves like the cycle of innocenceBeginnings are innocent in that beauty resurrects

Innocence is brighter then the largest starsBut fragile that it could be broken in the hands of madness

It represents another realm of everyonePeeking through the gateway to the soul,

innocence paints a picture with a lack of recognition of evilHaving the ability to maintain order, civilization and immortality,

it creates a fine glass revealing the inner being

Ryan Quinlan

Charlotte Batten

Victoria Zefi

Dylan WilsonSashay McKenzie

Page 10: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Masked WithinLauren Unger

There’s more blood on the ground than in my own body.

There are more spears in my hand than school books.

There are more fights than childish games.

There’s more screaming coming from my mouth than talking.

There are more beasts inside of all of us then I thought

Alone Peter Vogel

Innocent at first,and roaming around where I am.When trees surround me,I do not know how to get out.

Something lurks in the woods,something that isn’t out there.Elusive and untraceable,It creeps at dusk.It makes me suffer at night,until weariness lulls me to a slumber.It crawls in my dreams and pummels me until I wake,but not a single drop of blood is seen.

As my hair grows long and hands get dirty,It demands my every move.It jeers and pesters and scoffs and scorns,It makes me do Its every wish.

It demands death and flesh,but It does not eat.It demands fire,but is forever cold.It destroys my sanity,and laughs in my face.Familiar with my surroundings,though I do not know where I am.Beaten by Nature and forgotten by society,I become one with It.Innocent at first,guilty the next.

Gabrielle Sanchez

Joey Sinapi

Josh Acevedo

Page 11: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Masked WithinLauren Unger

There’s more blood on the ground than in my own body.

There are more spears in my hand than school books.

There are more fights than childish games.

There’s more screaming coming from my mouth than talking.

There are more beasts inside of all of us then I thought

Alone Peter Vogel

Innocent at first,and roaming around where I am.When trees surround me,I do not know how to get out.

Something lurks in the woods,something that isn’t out there.Elusive and untraceable,It creeps at dusk.It makes me suffer at night,until weariness lulls me to a slumber.It crawls in my dreams and pummels me until I wake,but not a single drop of blood is seen.

As my hair grows long and hands get dirty,It demands my every move.It jeers and pesters and scoffs and scorns,It makes me do Its every wish.

It demands death and flesh,but It does not eat.It demands fire,but is forever cold.It destroys my sanity,and laughs in my face.Familiar with my surroundings,though I do not know where I am.Beaten by Nature and forgotten by society,I become one with It.Innocent at first,guilty the next.

Gabrielle Sanchez

Joey Sinapi

Josh Acevedo

Page 12: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

The White RoomOlivia Schettino

The white room was the epitome of pure elegance. The party guests seemed to be taken aback as they promenaded into the hall; the pallid radiance that emanated through the entranceway was of such grandeur it seemed to be an illusion. White walls, white ceilings, white floor; there was no set ending or beginning; just vast openness. The heavens seemed to flow into the room. Crystal chandeliers sus-pended from the ceiling, their effulgence reflecting off of one another, speckled like stars in the skies of heaven. Jewels and gemstones adorned the single window frame in the room, the only aperture to the outside world of chaos and pestilence. Light seemed to devise itself out of nihility. In the clearance of this ivory oasis one was given a sense of security and peacefulness and safety. Ballet dancers donned in crisp, lily-white tulle floated through the hall like angels; it appeared as if their feet were barely grazing the shimmering floor. At the far right, an orchestra performed slow, halcyon melodies. Sterling violins, flutes, and clarinets resonated clearly through the rafters in such euphony that the guests were entranced by their sweet songs. Each note rang with the passion and finesse of a church choir. Both the dancers and the instruments flowed together in graceful synchronization, as if they were one. The guests were captivated by the Beauty of the decorum, each element intricately designed to impeccability. Pearls draped down from the frame-work of the paintings; the snowy palette of the portraits scintillated with a metallic luster. In each piece of artwork, the guests envisioned the blissful moments of their life that had passed. Their minds drifted as they traveled through their being, the brilliance of continuing on in that bliss beckoned them to follow as they sailed back into reality. Alabaster columns were erect about the room. Sleek furnishings lined the perimeter of the hall; and woven in between fabrics were immaculate gold and silver threads that from afar gave the impression of a phantasmagoric glow. A room blessed with such cleanliness and felicity should belong to God himself. Moonbeams danced from the crystalline candelabrum strewn about the tables. Frosted silk tapestries graced the settings; they trailed from the gleaming silver chairs like the train of a bridal gown.

Petals of white roses and baby’s breath drifted through the air like snowflakes; a mesmerizing and truly beautiful sight as the guests glimpsed into the innocence of their youth. A deep, monotonous vibrato echoes through the abbey. The ebony clock in the westward wing, engraved in elaborate detail, forged in trepidation. An alarming disturbance, the melancholy knells of the clock hindered the natural order of the room. The guests slipped out of their thoughts, out of their peace, out of their happiness, and regained full awareness of the present world. Their nostal-gic spirits diminished. The chimes grew louder and more menacing. Time, their fate, was creeping up behind them. The gleaming gossamer of their safe haven faded away as they egressed out of holiness and into deadliness.

Giovanna Scampone

Page 13: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

The White RoomOlivia Schettino

The white room was the epitome of pure elegance. The party guests seemed to be taken aback as they promenaded into the hall; the pallid radiance that emanated through the entranceway was of such grandeur it seemed to be an illusion. White walls, white ceilings, white floor; there was no set ending or beginning; just vast openness. The heavens seemed to flow into the room. Crystal chandeliers sus-pended from the ceiling, their effulgence reflecting off of one another, speckled like stars in the skies of heaven. Jewels and gemstones adorned the single window frame in the room, the only aperture to the outside world of chaos and pestilence. Light seemed to devise itself out of nihility. In the clearance of this ivory oasis one was given a sense of security and peacefulness and safety. Ballet dancers donned in crisp, lily-white tulle floated through the hall like angels; it appeared as if their feet were barely grazing the shimmering floor. At the far right, an orchestra performed slow, halcyon melodies. Sterling violins, flutes, and clarinets resonated clearly through the rafters in such euphony that the guests were entranced by their sweet songs. Each note rang with the passion and finesse of a church choir. Both the dancers and the instruments flowed together in graceful synchronization, as if they were one. The guests were captivated by the Beauty of the decorum, each element intricately designed to impeccability. Pearls draped down from the frame-work of the paintings; the snowy palette of the portraits scintillated with a metallic luster. In each piece of artwork, the guests envisioned the blissful moments of their life that had passed. Their minds drifted as they traveled through their being, the brilliance of continuing on in that bliss beckoned them to follow as they sailed back into reality. Alabaster columns were erect about the room. Sleek furnishings lined the perimeter of the hall; and woven in between fabrics were immaculate gold and silver threads that from afar gave the impression of a phantasmagoric glow. A room blessed with such cleanliness and felicity should belong to God himself. Moonbeams danced from the crystalline candelabrum strewn about the tables. Frosted silk tapestries graced the settings; they trailed from the gleaming silver chairs like the train of a bridal gown.

Petals of white roses and baby’s breath drifted through the air like snowflakes; a mesmerizing and truly beautiful sight as the guests glimpsed into the innocence of their youth. A deep, monotonous vibrato echoes through the abbey. The ebony clock in the westward wing, engraved in elaborate detail, forged in trepidation. An alarming disturbance, the melancholy knells of the clock hindered the natural order of the room. The guests slipped out of their thoughts, out of their peace, out of their happiness, and regained full awareness of the present world. Their nostal-gic spirits diminished. The chimes grew louder and more menacing. Time, their fate, was creeping up behind them. The gleaming gossamer of their safe haven faded away as they egressed out of holiness and into deadliness.

Giovanna Scampone

Page 14: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

The Downfall of a HeroChloe Burns

Heroes do not exist. At first glance, Beowulf is a perfect hero. He forms a comitatus bond with his lord, fights with valor and courage, but his motivations betray his true nature: in actuality, Beowulf is greedy, boast-ful, and uncaring about the fall of his country. Beowulf: A New Verse Translation by Seamus Heaney is an epic poem describing the values of a long-dead warrior society. The perfect Anglo-Saxon hero does anything for his lord and men. He achieves heroic status upon the completion of gran-diose deeds and his greatest goal is to never be forgotten. Beowulf battles the gruesome Grendel, his demented dam, and falls fighting a dragon. While some devotees of Beowulf would never cast a shadow

more wealth to bear home. In his third and final battle with the supernatural, Beowulf fights the dragon to gain the hoard of the “old harrower of the dark.” He fights for the wealth possessed by the dragon, not freedom from a beast that terrorizes the country-side. Because of his boasting nature and pride, Beowulf is imperfect. Beowulf demonstrates litotes, or ironic understatement, while speaking with Unferth: “…I don’t boast when I say/ that neither you nor Brecca were ever much celebrated for swords-manship” (Lines 583-585). Beowulf implies that he is better than both Unferth and Brecca at fighting, and also refutes Unferth’s allegations that he will die facing Grendel. Unferth’s distaste for Beowulf most likely stems from being talked down to by war-riors like Beowulf; he knows himself to be an inferior warrior so he seeks to wound his enemies with severe words instead. Upon Beowulf’s arrival in Geatland, he gives a detailed and heroic account to Hygelac of how he defeated not one, but two fiends in order to help Hrothgar. Beowulf claims to fight the dragon for the greater good of his own people, but is truly seeking another way to gain fame: “…Now I am old, But as king of the people I shall pursue this fight For the glory of winning, if the evil one will only Abandon his earth-fort and face me in the open” (Beowulf Lines 2512-2515). By seeking out a fight “for the glory of winning,” Beowulf reveals his true nature; over-all he wants only for fame and to boost his own self-confidence. Beowulf also shows his cowardly mindset, saying he will only fight the dragon “in the open” instead of ventur-ing into his glittering lair. While Beowulf boasts of his deeds, he betrays his portrait of confidence by fighting the dragon on a playing field leveled in his favor. Beowulf is uncaring to the fact that with his demise, he has left his people de-fenseless and open to attack. After the defeat of the dragon, Beowulf speaks to Wiglaf, his chosen successor: “Order my troop to construct a barrow On a headland on the coast, after my pyre has cooled. It will loom on the horizon at Hronesness And be a reminder among my people- So that in coming times crews under sail Will call it Beowulf’s barrow…” (Lines 2802-2808). Beowulf’s desire for a grand monument to himself reveals his desire to be remem-bered; he cares not for the fate of his people when they are left bereft a king. The fallen king wishes for a burial site that will be seen for years to come so he will forever be remembered as a great king. On his deathbed, he expresses his regret only for being

on his goodness, some critics argue he did not have to fight a dragon for his worth had already been proven. Were there not younger warriors ready to combat the dragon? Wiglaf, for one, had a steady hand and a confident attitude while aiding Beowulf in the battle. By challenging the dragon directly despite his age, Beowulf reveals his gold-lust. Although he is stalwart, Beowulf does not measure up to the Anglo-Saxon heroic ideal because of his greed for gold, boastful nature, and for bringing about the downfall of a once-proud nation. Beowulf is a flawed hero because of his yearning for material items. After Beowulf’s glorious defeat of “God-cursed Grendel,” Hrothgar, an elderly king, lavishly rewards him, saying there will be “no worldly goods that won’t be yours” (Line 949). This reveals both warriors and kings desire treasures, and “worldly goods” are important symbols of status. Beowulf is further rewarded by Hrothgar upon slaying Grendel’s dam: “Our treasure will be shared and showered upon you” (Line 1784). Beowulf is “elated” by Hrothgar’s words, and immediately sets about to ingraining him-self deeper into the king’s affections and “gladly (obeys)” Hrothgar, pleased to amass

Giovanna Scampone

Page 15: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

The Downfall of a HeroChloe Burns

Heroes do not exist. At first glance, Beowulf is a perfect hero. He forms a comitatus bond with his lord, fights with valor and courage, but his motivations betray his true nature: in actuality, Beowulf is greedy, boast-ful, and uncaring about the fall of his country. Beowulf: A New Verse Translation by Seamus Heaney is an epic poem describing the values of a long-dead warrior society. The perfect Anglo-Saxon hero does anything for his lord and men. He achieves heroic status upon the completion of gran-diose deeds and his greatest goal is to never be forgotten. Beowulf battles the gruesome Grendel, his demented dam, and falls fighting a dragon. While some devotees of Beowulf would never cast a shadow

more wealth to bear home. In his third and final battle with the supernatural, Beowulf fights the dragon to gain the hoard of the “old harrower of the dark.” He fights for the wealth possessed by the dragon, not freedom from a beast that terrorizes the country-side. Because of his boasting nature and pride, Beowulf is imperfect. Beowulf demonstrates litotes, or ironic understatement, while speaking with Unferth: “…I don’t boast when I say/ that neither you nor Brecca were ever much celebrated for swords-manship” (Lines 583-585). Beowulf implies that he is better than both Unferth and Brecca at fighting, and also refutes Unferth’s allegations that he will die facing Grendel. Unferth’s distaste for Beowulf most likely stems from being talked down to by war-riors like Beowulf; he knows himself to be an inferior warrior so he seeks to wound his enemies with severe words instead. Upon Beowulf’s arrival in Geatland, he gives a detailed and heroic account to Hygelac of how he defeated not one, but two fiends in order to help Hrothgar. Beowulf claims to fight the dragon for the greater good of his own people, but is truly seeking another way to gain fame: “…Now I am old, But as king of the people I shall pursue this fight For the glory of winning, if the evil one will only Abandon his earth-fort and face me in the open” (Beowulf Lines 2512-2515). By seeking out a fight “for the glory of winning,” Beowulf reveals his true nature; over-all he wants only for fame and to boost his own self-confidence. Beowulf also shows his cowardly mindset, saying he will only fight the dragon “in the open” instead of ventur-ing into his glittering lair. While Beowulf boasts of his deeds, he betrays his portrait of confidence by fighting the dragon on a playing field leveled in his favor. Beowulf is uncaring to the fact that with his demise, he has left his people de-fenseless and open to attack. After the defeat of the dragon, Beowulf speaks to Wiglaf, his chosen successor: “Order my troop to construct a barrow On a headland on the coast, after my pyre has cooled. It will loom on the horizon at Hronesness And be a reminder among my people- So that in coming times crews under sail Will call it Beowulf’s barrow…” (Lines 2802-2808). Beowulf’s desire for a grand monument to himself reveals his desire to be remem-bered; he cares not for the fate of his people when they are left bereft a king. The fallen king wishes for a burial site that will be seen for years to come so he will forever be remembered as a great king. On his deathbed, he expresses his regret only for being

on his goodness, some critics argue he did not have to fight a dragon for his worth had already been proven. Were there not younger warriors ready to combat the dragon? Wiglaf, for one, had a steady hand and a confident attitude while aiding Beowulf in the battle. By challenging the dragon directly despite his age, Beowulf reveals his gold-lust. Although he is stalwart, Beowulf does not measure up to the Anglo-Saxon heroic ideal because of his greed for gold, boastful nature, and for bringing about the downfall of a once-proud nation. Beowulf is a flawed hero because of his yearning for material items. After Beowulf’s glorious defeat of “God-cursed Grendel,” Hrothgar, an elderly king, lavishly rewards him, saying there will be “no worldly goods that won’t be yours” (Line 949). This reveals both warriors and kings desire treasures, and “worldly goods” are important symbols of status. Beowulf is further rewarded by Hrothgar upon slaying Grendel’s dam: “Our treasure will be shared and showered upon you” (Line 1784). Beowulf is “elated” by Hrothgar’s words, and immediately sets about to ingraining him-self deeper into the king’s affections and “gladly (obeys)” Hrothgar, pleased to amass

Giovanna Scampone

Page 16: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

unable to bear away all of the treasure. Beowulf is content to lie down and die, letting war invade his nation once he breathes his last. Andrew Ratelle, in his essay “Lessons in Manliness from Beowulf” (September 21, 2010) asserts that Beowulf is the perfect hero because of his actions, resolve, and courage. Ratelle supports his assertion by stating the many lessons Beowulf teaches. His purpose is to show Beowulf’s unselfish desires with examples from the epic poem. Writing in a positive tone for both medieval enthusiasts and critics of the hero, Ratelle claims Beowulf is a well-rounded hero. Beowulf has plenty of courage to spare, so itis valid for Ratelle to believe this is one of his better traits. It is also true that Beowulf “succeeds his uncle…without ambition,” (Lessons in Manliness from Beowulf by An-drew Ratelle) however this is not necessarily virtuous. When one has no ambition to become better than their predecessor is to allow a country to become stagnant. Beowulfdoes not conquer many kingdoms after his coronation and has no heirs to succeed him should he die. It is as if he wants his country to fail after his death! A warrior cannot be a great king for he who enjoys the thrill of battle cannot understand when it is time to pass on the sword to a new warrior and focus his attention on governing his people. For all of his strength and courage, Beowulf cannot stand up against the human vices of greed, self-aggrandizement, and indifference. While Beowulf achieves great wealth and greater status, he throws away his achievements in what was to be his final act of valor: he perishes, helpless against the dragon’s poison. No man can achieve ab-solute heroism. Everyone has a weakness that can be exploited and Beowulf’s fatal flaw is his pride.

Nick Walsh

Gabrielle Sanchez

Dani Scampone

Katarina Maric

Dylan Wilson

Page 17: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

unable to bear away all of the treasure. Beowulf is content to lie down and die, letting war invade his nation once he breathes his last. Andrew Ratelle, in his essay “Lessons in Manliness from Beowulf” (September 21, 2010) asserts that Beowulf is the perfect hero because of his actions, resolve, and courage. Ratelle supports his assertion by stating the many lessons Beowulf teaches. His purpose is to show Beowulf’s unselfish desires with examples from the epic poem. Writing in a positive tone for both medieval enthusiasts and critics of the hero, Ratelle claims Beowulf is a well-rounded hero. Beowulf has plenty of courage to spare, so itis valid for Ratelle to believe this is one of his better traits. It is also true that Beowulf “succeeds his uncle…without ambition,” (Lessons in Manliness from Beowulf by An-drew Ratelle) however this is not necessarily virtuous. When one has no ambition to become better than their predecessor is to allow a country to become stagnant. Beowulfdoes not conquer many kingdoms after his coronation and has no heirs to succeed him should he die. It is as if he wants his country to fail after his death! A warrior cannot be a great king for he who enjoys the thrill of battle cannot understand when it is time to pass on the sword to a new warrior and focus his attention on governing his people. For all of his strength and courage, Beowulf cannot stand up against the human vices of greed, self-aggrandizement, and indifference. While Beowulf achieves great wealth and greater status, he throws away his achievements in what was to be his final act of valor: he perishes, helpless against the dragon’s poison. No man can achieve ab-solute heroism. Everyone has a weakness that can be exploited and Beowulf’s fatal flaw is his pride.

Nick Walsh

Gabrielle Sanchez

Dani Scampone

Katarina Maric

Dylan Wilson

Page 18: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

With rich thoughts in mindhopeful for the wonderous-a dream passes by-Angela Mangione and Ally Falkenberg

Every night I dreamof that summer night when myprince will come calling-Francesca Dilapi

The Melody of Life Lauren Hutnik

Times worn by, and I’ve worn down.It is finally five in the afternoon. I sit by the mighty and daunting piano, hands lightlyfluttering above the keys.My fingers come into contact with them, but never challenge the thoughtful silence with any true sound.For what seems like hour, I stare at the endless sheets of music ,fingers twitching,aching to play a harmless melody to my meek life.

But harmless a melody it is not; it is not a sound to meddle with.Everything in my life reminds me of what I want to be.From the wealthy musicians of life—from the doctors,to the family men, to the wealthy celebrities,And the ones whose melodies lie with G-d—the religious people.The overwhelming feeling that what I desire,what lies inches from my grasp, is unreachable, hurts.Truth impedes possibilities.

The rapping of the knuckles of the Boss to get back to my destined path, calls to me each day.In fact, it yells at me.So does the music reverberating from the real world,from the true musiciansand their successful souls—successful melodies.So each day, I sit, I flutter, then stand,and return to the humdrum of the true world,as most souls must do, whether willingly or not.For G-d gives all a set path; and I am discontent with the melody of mine.So until I reach the end of my hesitancy to become something more,I settle with this:a man can only dream, can only aspire

PossibilitiesTo dream is to liveSerenity, happinessSpread your wings and soar!-“Math Men”

Emi Giuseffi

Stephanie Pippo

Giovanna Scampone

Page 19: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

With rich thoughts in mindhopeful for the wonderous-a dream passes by-Angela Mangione and Ally Falkenberg

Every night I dreamof that summer night when myprince will come calling-Francesca Dilapi

The Melody of Life Lauren Hutnik

Times worn by, and I’ve worn down.It is finally five in the afternoon. I sit by the mighty and daunting piano, hands lightlyfluttering above the keys.My fingers come into contact with them, but never challenge the thoughtful silence with any true sound.For what seems like hour, I stare at the endless sheets of music ,fingers twitching,aching to play a harmless melody to my meek life.

But harmless a melody it is not; it is not a sound to meddle with.Everything in my life reminds me of what I want to be.From the wealthy musicians of life—from the doctors,to the family men, to the wealthy celebrities,And the ones whose melodies lie with G-d—the religious people.The overwhelming feeling that what I desire,what lies inches from my grasp, is unreachable, hurts.Truth impedes possibilities.

The rapping of the knuckles of the Boss to get back to my destined path, calls to me each day.In fact, it yells at me.So does the music reverberating from the real world,from the true musiciansand their successful souls—successful melodies.So each day, I sit, I flutter, then stand,and return to the humdrum of the true world,as most souls must do, whether willingly or not.For G-d gives all a set path; and I am discontent with the melody of mine.So until I reach the end of my hesitancy to become something more,I settle with this:a man can only dream, can only aspire

PossibilitiesTo dream is to liveSerenity, happinessSpread your wings and soar!-“Math Men”

Emi Giuseffi

Stephanie Pippo

Giovanna Scampone

Page 20: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Last night I had oneMy emu flew to my beddreams really do come true -Helen You and Will Carr

Drift off in the clouds-covered in fantasy dropsfrost of the winter -Jessica Kaplan and Meenu Mundackal

Soccer is the bestCristiano Ronaldohe is in my dreams-Faith Lovett and McKenzie Redfern

Lauren Sugantino

Gerald Alfieri

Emi Giuseffi

Studio Art 9 Honors

Alexa Picciano, Marlene White

Page 21: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Last night I had oneMy emu flew to my beddreams really do come true -Helen You and Will Carr

Drift off in the clouds-covered in fantasy dropsfrost of the winter -Jessica Kaplan and Meenu Mundackal

Soccer is the bestCristiano Ronaldohe is in my dreams-Faith Lovett and McKenzie Redfern

Lauren Sugantino

Gerald Alfieri

Emi Giuseffi

Studio Art 9 Honors

Alexa Picciano, Marlene White

Page 22: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Flower GardenJessica Kaplan

Inside a tremendous world, full of tremendous countries, encased with tremendous cities, containing tremendous streets,lies a garden.This garden is not a secret,nor is it anyone’s job to keep it.For within this garden,Every single one of us delicately placed,rose, dandelion, sunflower,tulip, daisy, lily, or lilac. Our stems and petals weave together, flutter our flower garden.Not segregated by hues, height of our stems, or diverse species,we never have to worry about attempting to conform. Some wilt, gradually fraying,while they droop lower every day,as what comes with elderly age. Some fully blossomed,shining like a shooting starwho knows what comes next?The glorious rose stands tall,Its petals flaming like the passionate horizon,they are the crystal glimmering in the field,the one that everyone hopes to find.Behind the majestic rose, is a hidden flower no one seemed to notice.Its withered leaves and petals deeply hardened,swept by rain and twisted by wind.This species of flower is one that not many people take the time to know,I only know of them myself, because I became one long ago.Perhaps the most mysterious of them all,who are the outsides,of this tremendous garden,throughout these tremendous streets,within these tremendous cities, that expand into tremendous countries, that becomes our whole wondrous world.I do believe that we all belong somewhere,the roses, the dandelions, the sunflowers,the tulips, daisies, lilies, and lilacs, even the eccentric, beautiful, wallflowers.

Kelli Kinlen

Lauren Hutnik

Briana RicciStudio Art 9 Honors

Page 23: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Flower GardenJessica Kaplan

Inside a tremendous world, full of tremendous countries, encased with tremendous cities, containing tremendous streets,lies a garden.This garden is not a secret,nor is it anyone’s job to keep it.For within this garden,Every single one of us delicately placed,rose, dandelion, sunflower,tulip, daisy, lily, or lilac. Our stems and petals weave together, flutter our flower garden.Not segregated by hues, height of our stems, or diverse species,we never have to worry about attempting to conform. Some wilt, gradually fraying,while they droop lower every day,as what comes with elderly age. Some fully blossomed,shining like a shooting starwho knows what comes next?The glorious rose stands tall,Its petals flaming like the passionate horizon,they are the crystal glimmering in the field,the one that everyone hopes to find.Behind the majestic rose, is a hidden flower no one seemed to notice.Its withered leaves and petals deeply hardened,swept by rain and twisted by wind.This species of flower is one that not many people take the time to know,I only know of them myself, because I became one long ago.Perhaps the most mysterious of them all,who are the outsides,of this tremendous garden,throughout these tremendous streets,within these tremendous cities, that expand into tremendous countries, that becomes our whole wondrous world.I do believe that we all belong somewhere,the roses, the dandelions, the sunflowers,the tulips, daisies, lilies, and lilacs, even the eccentric, beautiful, wallflowers.

Kelli Kinlen

Lauren Hutnik

Briana RicciStudio Art 9 Honors

Page 24: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

346a Charles DickensBrian Bennett

“Handel how would you like to lay your eyes on old Gruffandgrim?” said Her-bert in a hushed tone. “Herbert, did you not say you yourself have never laid eyes on the man?” I inquired. “Yes, I did say that, did I not? Well, as I have become more accustomed to life here, I believe it is about time that I myself have seen the father of my affianced and I would like you to accompany me.” “Is it alright with Clara?” “It is quite alright, we talked about this before you arrived.” And with that Herbert put his hand on the doorknob and in a dexterous fash-ion turned it, opened the door, and walked inside. I followed close behind. There, upon entering the room, I stood next to an appalled Herbert as we looked round the cubicle room with window overlooking London and that through which was a crippled structure that was Old London Bridge. There were bottles scat-tered upon the floor, tables with uneven legs, shelves upon shelves covering the walls, and a rather serious goiter under the skin of the bed. Yes, that desolation of an old man lying there was Bill Barley. It was a disconso-late matter that this stump was old Gruffandgrim. He had short, white hair that began to recede as if wanting to show off even more of his flat broad-brimmed low-crowned (15) forehead. His eyes were set very deep in his head (76) as if attempting to escape the light of the world under folds of skin. His face was a dry landscape of wrinkles and cracks, holes and hills, fuzz and spots, his eyebrows were wide and broad as if attempt-ing to enhance their prodigious status, and the bristles which sprouted from his chin were impartial to the rest of the hair covering his face. He had been drinking, and his eyes were red and bloodshot (392). That is, the one I could see, for the other was half closed. His body was constrained under the sheets, but the outline of his body under them seemed unnaturally crooked. It was as if old Bill had been broken into three pieces and was stitched together rather poorly. Scattered round the bed were empty rum bottles, probably used to fill the leaky, dirty, half-filled basin on one of the uneven tables at one side of the bed; above the bed was perched more liquor, in bottles and jugs, in pitchers and glasses, and in flasks and vessels.

At the other side of his bed I observed that a golden pipe rusted over was a telescope pointed at the streets of London. It was short and narrow, with a thick layer of rust forming on its joints. It was of golden complexion, and what could been seen through the rust had a brazen shine that, when the sunlight shimmered off the gold, seemed to brighten up the disconsolate room.

Suddenly, upon shifting his irritated eye upon Herbert and me, he suffered a paroxysm. The roar was not as loud as some of the others had been, so I doubted the shipbuilders were interrupted from their work. “What are you a-doing in my room” growled the goiter, attempting to appear threatening, but only enhanced his morose stipulation. “Well, sir, I am the one to be married to your beautiful daughter” said Herbert. “Ah, so you are the varmint that my Clara has mentioned all these years. Well, come over and a-let me have a good look at ye” replied the goiter, as the stump of a man was most likely unable to move any-thing but his neck. So Herbert walked until he stood a mere foot from the bed, where the stench of alcohol must have been almost unbearable. The goiter squinted its eye, so both were half closed, and his mouth hung half-open, as if awaiting another round. After half a minute, what little life it had left sprung to the goiter’s face and he growled softly, “As the father of Clara Barley, I give you my blessing to marry my daughter.” “Oh thank you, thank you Mr. Barley sir, and thank you again” said an elated Herbert. “I will treat your daughter as if she were the queen of all England!” After Herbert had thanked old Bill a couple more times, he and I left the room of the goiter, Herbert with a renewed twinkle in his eye and a great smile upon his face. I still wonder how held that face even as the goiter roared for more rum.

Work Cited: Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Needham, MA: Prentice Hall Publishing.

Gabby Bastone

Page 25: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

346a Charles DickensBrian Bennett

“Handel how would you like to lay your eyes on old Gruffandgrim?” said Her-bert in a hushed tone. “Herbert, did you not say you yourself have never laid eyes on the man?” I inquired. “Yes, I did say that, did I not? Well, as I have become more accustomed to life here, I believe it is about time that I myself have seen the father of my affianced and I would like you to accompany me.” “Is it alright with Clara?” “It is quite alright, we talked about this before you arrived.” And with that Herbert put his hand on the doorknob and in a dexterous fash-ion turned it, opened the door, and walked inside. I followed close behind. There, upon entering the room, I stood next to an appalled Herbert as we looked round the cubicle room with window overlooking London and that through which was a crippled structure that was Old London Bridge. There were bottles scat-tered upon the floor, tables with uneven legs, shelves upon shelves covering the walls, and a rather serious goiter under the skin of the bed. Yes, that desolation of an old man lying there was Bill Barley. It was a disconso-late matter that this stump was old Gruffandgrim. He had short, white hair that began to recede as if wanting to show off even more of his flat broad-brimmed low-crowned (15) forehead. His eyes were set very deep in his head (76) as if attempting to escape the light of the world under folds of skin. His face was a dry landscape of wrinkles and cracks, holes and hills, fuzz and spots, his eyebrows were wide and broad as if attempt-ing to enhance their prodigious status, and the bristles which sprouted from his chin were impartial to the rest of the hair covering his face. He had been drinking, and his eyes were red and bloodshot (392). That is, the one I could see, for the other was half closed. His body was constrained under the sheets, but the outline of his body under them seemed unnaturally crooked. It was as if old Bill had been broken into three pieces and was stitched together rather poorly. Scattered round the bed were empty rum bottles, probably used to fill the leaky, dirty, half-filled basin on one of the uneven tables at one side of the bed; above the bed was perched more liquor, in bottles and jugs, in pitchers and glasses, and in flasks and vessels.

At the other side of his bed I observed that a golden pipe rusted over was a telescope pointed at the streets of London. It was short and narrow, with a thick layer of rust forming on its joints. It was of golden complexion, and what could been seen through the rust had a brazen shine that, when the sunlight shimmered off the gold, seemed to brighten up the disconsolate room.

Suddenly, upon shifting his irritated eye upon Herbert and me, he suffered a paroxysm. The roar was not as loud as some of the others had been, so I doubted the shipbuilders were interrupted from their work. “What are you a-doing in my room” growled the goiter, attempting to appear threatening, but only enhanced his morose stipulation. “Well, sir, I am the one to be married to your beautiful daughter” said Herbert. “Ah, so you are the varmint that my Clara has mentioned all these years. Well, come over and a-let me have a good look at ye” replied the goiter, as the stump of a man was most likely unable to move any-thing but his neck. So Herbert walked until he stood a mere foot from the bed, where the stench of alcohol must have been almost unbearable. The goiter squinted its eye, so both were half closed, and his mouth hung half-open, as if awaiting another round. After half a minute, what little life it had left sprung to the goiter’s face and he growled softly, “As the father of Clara Barley, I give you my blessing to marry my daughter.” “Oh thank you, thank you Mr. Barley sir, and thank you again” said an elated Herbert. “I will treat your daughter as if she were the queen of all England!” After Herbert had thanked old Bill a couple more times, he and I left the room of the goiter, Herbert with a renewed twinkle in his eye and a great smile upon his face. I still wonder how held that face even as the goiter roared for more rum.

Work Cited: Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Needham, MA: Prentice Hall Publishing.

Gabby Bastone

Page 26: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Mostly Mercy Julia O’Connell

Mostly all the boys have a fascination with herand the way her hair shines and skin glowsand how she speaks sarcastically with just the hint of a smileMostly all the girls have their thing about herthe way she rolled her eyes and gave that lookor the way she won over that boy with whom they were so in love with, with just the raise of an eyebrowMostly, she knows she’s beautiful but pretends she doesn’tand she describes her exciting life to make her friends jealousand everything she’s been through is so much worse than anything anyone else could’ve experiencedMostly, she’s a flirtand an exaggeratorand a queen beeBut perhaps mostlyisn’t what’s mostly thereRarely does she pass the threshold of her house’s barbed wire doorswithout getting cutor find the comfort of a band-aid inside Rarely does she walk through the hallswithout wincing at another knife in her back from the muttered phrases of so-called friendsRarely does another rose in her locker not prick her fingeras she feels like faux fur, only impressive before you take it out in the cold An empty home can feel floodedFive small letters can stab like daggersThose roses wilt before ninth periodAnd again, she’ll be alone

Nick Stivaletti

Mike Marron

Alexa IrizarryBrian Bennett

Mike Anderson

Will Sweeny

Lauren Urrico

Jenna Sputo

Page 27: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Mostly Mercy Julia O’Connell

Mostly all the boys have a fascination with herand the way her hair shines and skin glowsand how she speaks sarcastically with just the hint of a smileMostly all the girls have their thing about herthe way she rolled her eyes and gave that lookor the way she won over that boy with whom they were so in love with, with just the raise of an eyebrowMostly, she knows she’s beautiful but pretends she doesn’tand she describes her exciting life to make her friends jealousand everything she’s been through is so much worse than anything anyone else could’ve experiencedMostly, she’s a flirtand an exaggeratorand a queen beeBut perhaps mostlyisn’t what’s mostly thereRarely does she pass the threshold of her house’s barbed wire doorswithout getting cutor find the comfort of a band-aid inside Rarely does she walk through the hallswithout wincing at another knife in her back from the muttered phrases of so-called friendsRarely does another rose in her locker not prick her fingeras she feels like faux fur, only impressive before you take it out in the cold An empty home can feel floodedFive small letters can stab like daggersThose roses wilt before ninth periodAnd again, she’ll be alone

Nick Stivaletti

Mike Marron

Alexa IrizarryBrian Bennett

Mike Anderson

Will Sweeny

Lauren Urrico

Jenna Sputo

Page 28: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Old Bill Barley Charles Dickens and Ally Falkenberg

Clara returned soon afterwards, only to be called back up by Mr. Barley. She ascended the staircase with a morose expression imperceptible to Herbert’s loving, yet blinded eyes. I followed directly behind Herbert’s gentle fiancé and Herbert accompanied me up stairs to see our charge (346). The upstairs portion of the house was a well-furnished area which, though begging for a dusting and tight in appearance, had a surprisingly fresh airiness which attempted to compensate for the increasingly strong smell of rum and spirits that arose as we reached closer to Mr. Barley’s door. Two gothic windows on the opposite side of the room allowed for slices of light to penetrate the dismal attic and expose the dust particles that seemed unwilling to remain stagnant in any one spot in the room. To the right was one lonely door, with white paint chipping around the edges that looked as if it had been slammed countless times, and a tarnished brazen doorknob which ap-peared as if it had been agonizingly twisted and overused. On the left side of the room there seemed to be more of a lighthearted spirit; two white doors stood next to each other and seemed elated with their companionship. Both doors on the left looked as if they had been freshly painted and seemed as if they had scarcely been used; the door-knobs were bright and welcoming. Though I was drawn towards the two doors on the left, my curiosity of the like-ness of Mr. Barley led me to follow the scent of expired rum to the lonesome door to the right. Clara stopped in front of the doorway and peered back at Herbert and me as if silently pleading us to avert our eyes from the scene. Herbert, trying to commiserate with his wife-to-be, began to make his way to the other side of the room where Provis was stowed away in hiding, yet something pulled me to linger outside the door for just a moment longer. Clara looked back once more with a certain diffidence and uneasiness which I was soon to learn the reason behind. She placed her dainty hand, ring on finger, onto the doorknob which squeaked in a way almost mocking the person about to enter Mr. Barley’s realm. Once the door opened, a man of prodigious size, about six feet tall and wide around the waist, which I presumed was due to his copious amount of drinking, slammed a bottle of rum on the table and let out a roar that carried a stench strong enough to poison an entire population. Mr. Barley had deep black hair shielding every visible part of his body: his staggering legs and his untamable arms and his bushy beard and his wide chest and the area of his stomach, his large rounded stomach, which had

managed to spill over his loose-fitting (though not so loose on Mr. Barley himself) pants. Old Barley tried to shuffle towards Clara but his enormous feet lost themselveson the way and the old brute landed on the floor. “Here’s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the Lord” (346) Mr. Barley said to himself with a growl. “Ain’t ye goin’ to help yer dear father, supposin’ ye want to keep that conwict hidden in this here household.” Clara might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that truculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service (345). “Yes Father, of course.” Clara rushed to her father’s assistance. As Clara aided the vile giant, I peered behind the two at the assortment of liquor kept in Old Barley’s room. On each shelf was an indiscriminate array of alcohol, each hosting bottles of beer and wine and liquors of all sorts, but one shelf itself was devoted particularly to rum. Next to the arrangement of alcohols were shelves of glasses which, by the looks of the shattered shards of glass scattered on the floor below, were slowly diminishing. As I was examining the room, with the ripped couch and the broken glasses and the piles of dirty laundry and the filth and the alcohol—the immense amounts of alcohol—Old Barley let out a growl that caught my attention immediately. “Don’t ye walk away from Old Barley now, unless you would take a likin’ to lil’ Barley.” Old Barley raised lil’ Barley (which I soon discovered to be his hand) and began to stagger towards Clara as she shrunk away from her menacing father like an animal shrinking away from its predator. Old Barley was about to strike Clara when he looked up and saw me staring at him with an appalled expression on my face. His anger yielded so suddenly at last, that he staggered back upon me, and I staggered back upon the opposite door (159). Eyeing me carefully, Barley stumbled back to his room and slammed the door behind him. As I backed into the door of my convict, away from Mr. Barley’s door, he was heard hoarsely muttering within … (346).

Work Cited: Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Needham, MA: Prentice Hall.

Mike Love

Page 29: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

Old Bill Barley Charles Dickens and Ally Falkenberg

Clara returned soon afterwards, only to be called back up by Mr. Barley. She ascended the staircase with a morose expression imperceptible to Herbert’s loving, yet blinded eyes. I followed directly behind Herbert’s gentle fiancé and Herbert accompanied me up stairs to see our charge (346). The upstairs portion of the house was a well-furnished area which, though begging for a dusting and tight in appearance, had a surprisingly fresh airiness which attempted to compensate for the increasingly strong smell of rum and spirits that arose as we reached closer to Mr. Barley’s door. Two gothic windows on the opposite side of the room allowed for slices of light to penetrate the dismal attic and expose the dust particles that seemed unwilling to remain stagnant in any one spot in the room. To the right was one lonely door, with white paint chipping around the edges that looked as if it had been slammed countless times, and a tarnished brazen doorknob which ap-peared as if it had been agonizingly twisted and overused. On the left side of the room there seemed to be more of a lighthearted spirit; two white doors stood next to each other and seemed elated with their companionship. Both doors on the left looked as if they had been freshly painted and seemed as if they had scarcely been used; the door-knobs were bright and welcoming. Though I was drawn towards the two doors on the left, my curiosity of the like-ness of Mr. Barley led me to follow the scent of expired rum to the lonesome door to the right. Clara stopped in front of the doorway and peered back at Herbert and me as if silently pleading us to avert our eyes from the scene. Herbert, trying to commiserate with his wife-to-be, began to make his way to the other side of the room where Provis was stowed away in hiding, yet something pulled me to linger outside the door for just a moment longer. Clara looked back once more with a certain diffidence and uneasiness which I was soon to learn the reason behind. She placed her dainty hand, ring on finger, onto the doorknob which squeaked in a way almost mocking the person about to enter Mr. Barley’s realm. Once the door opened, a man of prodigious size, about six feet tall and wide around the waist, which I presumed was due to his copious amount of drinking, slammed a bottle of rum on the table and let out a roar that carried a stench strong enough to poison an entire population. Mr. Barley had deep black hair shielding every visible part of his body: his staggering legs and his untamable arms and his bushy beard and his wide chest and the area of his stomach, his large rounded stomach, which had

managed to spill over his loose-fitting (though not so loose on Mr. Barley himself) pants. Old Barley tried to shuffle towards Clara but his enormous feet lost themselveson the way and the old brute landed on the floor. “Here’s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the Lord” (346) Mr. Barley said to himself with a growl. “Ain’t ye goin’ to help yer dear father, supposin’ ye want to keep that conwict hidden in this here household.” Clara might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that truculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service (345). “Yes Father, of course.” Clara rushed to her father’s assistance. As Clara aided the vile giant, I peered behind the two at the assortment of liquor kept in Old Barley’s room. On each shelf was an indiscriminate array of alcohol, each hosting bottles of beer and wine and liquors of all sorts, but one shelf itself was devoted particularly to rum. Next to the arrangement of alcohols were shelves of glasses which, by the looks of the shattered shards of glass scattered on the floor below, were slowly diminishing. As I was examining the room, with the ripped couch and the broken glasses and the piles of dirty laundry and the filth and the alcohol—the immense amounts of alcohol—Old Barley let out a growl that caught my attention immediately. “Don’t ye walk away from Old Barley now, unless you would take a likin’ to lil’ Barley.” Old Barley raised lil’ Barley (which I soon discovered to be his hand) and began to stagger towards Clara as she shrunk away from her menacing father like an animal shrinking away from its predator. Old Barley was about to strike Clara when he looked up and saw me staring at him with an appalled expression on my face. His anger yielded so suddenly at last, that he staggered back upon me, and I staggered back upon the opposite door (159). Eyeing me carefully, Barley stumbled back to his room and slammed the door behind him. As I backed into the door of my convict, away from Mr. Barley’s door, he was heard hoarsely muttering within … (346).

Work Cited: Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Needham, MA: Prentice Hall.

Mike Love

Page 30: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

A StreetZoe Palmer

It’s a house. Not a mansion, nor a tiny cabin, but a house. Beige, pale green, dirty white, with windows in the front and shutters thrown open happily, despite the fence separating it from the other houses on the street. A few windows decorate the sides, but not as many as the front: it tells you “Come! Look, look at me and see in me! I hide nothing!” even though the rest of it shows hardly anything. It has three stories if you include the attic, which looks roomy enough from the one window that really doesn’t show anything. But it is still a story, and the house itself has a story. Laughter can be heard everywhere, inside the house and out. A woman laughs at a joke that, if heard, really wasn’t funny at all. But she is laughing, and those who pass by remembering something from dinner last night hear her and know that it is because she is in love. They chuckle to themselves, dial up their loves because now nothing will get their minds off it. And if they have no one, no one to love and no one to be loved by, they grunt and tilt their heads down and begin to kick at the sidewalk as they move on. The wind beats at them, carrying the sounds of a persistent child talking to her siblings, scuffing her feet as she does, but with more happy sweeps and less of the loners’ low stops.

Julianne Farella

Lauren Unger

Nina VerzivolliMatthew Marcella

Justin Angeles

Alex VergaraJenna Sputo

Page 31: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

A StreetZoe Palmer

It’s a house. Not a mansion, nor a tiny cabin, but a house. Beige, pale green, dirty white, with windows in the front and shutters thrown open happily, despite the fence separating it from the other houses on the street. A few windows decorate the sides, but not as many as the front: it tells you “Come! Look, look at me and see in me! I hide nothing!” even though the rest of it shows hardly anything. It has three stories if you include the attic, which looks roomy enough from the one window that really doesn’t show anything. But it is still a story, and the house itself has a story. Laughter can be heard everywhere, inside the house and out. A woman laughs at a joke that, if heard, really wasn’t funny at all. But she is laughing, and those who pass by remembering something from dinner last night hear her and know that it is because she is in love. They chuckle to themselves, dial up their loves because now nothing will get their minds off it. And if they have no one, no one to love and no one to be loved by, they grunt and tilt their heads down and begin to kick at the sidewalk as they move on. The wind beats at them, carrying the sounds of a persistent child talking to her siblings, scuffing her feet as she does, but with more happy sweeps and less of the loners’ low stops.

Julianne Farella

Lauren Unger

Nina VerzivolliMatthew Marcella

Justin Angeles

Alex VergaraJenna Sputo

Page 32: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

“It was only my head and my legs that I could move, but to that extent I struggled with all my might, until then unknown, that was within me” (395). While I lay nearly unconscious on the musty, wooden floorboards of the old sluice-house, my disconnected body could not help but sense a resilient, almost justifying presence filling the grimy air. I panted, in hopes of gaining back my lost oxygen and accidently breathed in the fumes of the home, which had an oppressive smell and did not appeal to my fondness. The stillness of the room complemented my shriveled body, in that they were both unmoving; howev-er, I still maintained an inability to comprehend my loca-tion. My mind appeared to become sluggish, and although I could think, my intellect was trapped in a paralyzed structure. Not only was I lost, internally and externally, my senses were greatly distorted. Through the slits of my weakened eyelids I could make out a panorama of the dark room. This thin field of view, like a winter horizon kept my sight to an absolute minimum. The room was olden and “every discernible thing in it was covered in dust and mould” (Dickens 77). “Wh-Wheare em I?” I whimpered with my slurred speech. This sound wave traveled a few meters adjacent to my disheveled form and appeared to activate a distur-bance in the dynamic silence of the diabolical sluice house. I shifted my gouged head on its side, against the damp oak flooring, only to be confronted with a smell of mildew due to the humidity and wetness of the marsh, which interjected the vile residence. In my new line of sight I saw a figure; I could not quite decipher the description of this possibly inhumane creature, but the dark blob had a disheveled hunchback, one that no person could miss. There it was again. I once more felt that justifying aura that emanated from out-side the rotting wall panels, which so stimulated my confidence, as I lay in this hellhole. The horrid splotch of darkness nearby was growing without fear. In response, the light, blonde hairs on my blood-soaked arms stood up instantaneously and I then recalled the fact that “my sister’s bringing me up had made me sensitive” (Dickens 57). Vile thoughts were spinning in my corrupt head. What would the figure do to my already broken body? There was no time to wait. “Heelp m-!” screamed I, in a voice of discouragement, as my speech was cut off.

Garbled AgonyRyan Stasolla

Alina Alexander Katarina Maric

Briana Ricci

Kelli Kinlen

Lauren Hutnik

Tori Tinelli

Page 33: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

“It was only my head and my legs that I could move, but to that extent I struggled with all my might, until then unknown, that was within me” (395). While I lay nearly unconscious on the musty, wooden floorboards of the old sluice-house, my disconnected body could not help but sense a resilient, almost justifying presence filling the grimy air. I panted, in hopes of gaining back my lost oxygen and accidently breathed in the fumes of the home, which had an oppressive smell and did not appeal to my fondness. The stillness of the room complemented my shriveled body, in that they were both unmoving; howev-er, I still maintained an inability to comprehend my loca-tion. My mind appeared to become sluggish, and although I could think, my intellect was trapped in a paralyzed structure. Not only was I lost, internally and externally, my senses were greatly distorted. Through the slits of my weakened eyelids I could make out a panorama of the dark room. This thin field of view, like a winter horizon kept my sight to an absolute minimum. The room was olden and “every discernible thing in it was covered in dust and mould” (Dickens 77). “Wh-Wheare em I?” I whimpered with my slurred speech. This sound wave traveled a few meters adjacent to my disheveled form and appeared to activate a distur-bance in the dynamic silence of the diabolical sluice house. I shifted my gouged head on its side, against the damp oak flooring, only to be confronted with a smell of mildew due to the humidity and wetness of the marsh, which interjected the vile residence. In my new line of sight I saw a figure; I could not quite decipher the description of this possibly inhumane creature, but the dark blob had a disheveled hunchback, one that no person could miss. There it was again. I once more felt that justifying aura that emanated from out-side the rotting wall panels, which so stimulated my confidence, as I lay in this hellhole. The horrid splotch of darkness nearby was growing without fear. In response, the light, blonde hairs on my blood-soaked arms stood up instantaneously and I then recalled the fact that “my sister’s bringing me up had made me sensitive” (Dickens 57). Vile thoughts were spinning in my corrupt head. What would the figure do to my already broken body? There was no time to wait. “Heelp m-!” screamed I, in a voice of discouragement, as my speech was cut off.

Garbled AgonyRyan Stasolla

Alina Alexander Katarina Maric

Briana Ricci

Kelli Kinlen

Lauren Hutnik

Tori Tinelli

Page 34: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

AcknowledgementsMany Thanks to the Staff of Scrap Paper:

Chloe BurnsJillian Cannata

Michael FischerJohnny Mittleman

Thanks for Assistance with Fundrasing:

Samantha BelandAmanda SabhaJoseph Sinapi

Typeface: Baskerville Old FaceHeadings: Pristina

Front Cover Credit: Giovanna ScamponeBack Cover Credit: Jessica Hill

Tools of the Trade: InDesign CS5

Printer: Palisades Graphic Arts LLC

Disturbing the dreadful situation, the ancient, rickety door flew open, similar to a rodent running from a vicious bobcat. Although everything remained a blur to me, I maintained a limited awareness to what was happening around myself. “Lord bless me, what has happened to my dear companion Handel?” greeted a smaller stature that had now entered the sluice house. My murky pupils expanded at the sight of this alleviating figure, as he seemed to be lighter, and more luminescent than the bent backed man. The tension in the room caused my frigid fingers to shake against the hard, wooden floors. I could not quite construe who this savior was, but I knew he was a dear friend of mine for confronting the slug that wrecked havoc in the room. “Well, I have weakened the fiend, now let me finish the deed, intruder!” the larger shadow yelled. “That fiend, you so speak of, is my best friend and you will not touch him as long as I stay breathing,” responded the gentlemen. My faulted matter still lay unharmed as long as the man continued to taunt the ugly beast before me. My mind recounted the man, “a broad-shouldered loose-limbed swarthy fellow” (Dickens 103), with a nasty hunchback, and I had confirmed that this man was the abominable forge worker, Old Orlick. Interrupting my thought process, two more bodies, of a similar form to the first, had entered the crowded room. “Aye, now I am not looking for any trouble with you kids,” mumbled Orlick in a less self-assured volume. “I am afraid we can not agree to that statement Mister,” exclaimed the brighter character. With a sudden grab the ambiguous, kind man seemed to have picked up a large mallet-like object from the adjacent table. The metallic composition of the crude hammer filled my irritated nostrils with a burning sensation, which caused them to throb. The group of men had a passion that could not have been stopped by any brute force. With a rapid dodge, Orlick, a boar of a creature, jittered past the young men with fear and instability, a feeling that I had recently experienced. “T’hainnk ya sur” I muttered, with extreme relief. The shadows looked down upon my body in disbelief. Still trapped in the immense darkness, I composed a better statement of mind and decided to recount the severities that just transpired. In the same instant I heard responsive shouts, saw figures and a gleam of light dash in at the door, heard voices and tumult, and saw Orlick emerge from a struggle of men as if it were tumbling water, clear the table at a leap, and fly out into the night! (395)

“Heheh if you think you are leaving here alive, Wolf, then you are terribly mistaken,” grunted the oafish shadow.

Hailey Tully

Page 35: WHS Scrap Paper 2014

AcknowledgementsMany Thanks to the Staff of Scrap Paper:

Chloe BurnsJillian Cannata

Michael FischerJohnny Mittleman

Thanks for Assistance with Fundrasing:

Samantha BelandAmanda SabhaJoseph Sinapi

Typeface: Baskerville Old FaceHeadings: Pristina

Front Cover Credit: Giovanna ScamponeBack Cover Credit: Jessica Hill

Tools of the Trade: InDesign CS5

Printer: Palisades Graphic Arts LLC

Disturbing the dreadful situation, the ancient, rickety door flew open, similar to a rodent running from a vicious bobcat. Although everything remained a blur to me, I maintained a limited awareness to what was happening around myself. “Lord bless me, what has happened to my dear companion Handel?” greeted a smaller stature that had now entered the sluice house. My murky pupils expanded at the sight of this alleviating figure, as he seemed to be lighter, and more luminescent than the bent backed man. The tension in the room caused my frigid fingers to shake against the hard, wooden floors. I could not quite construe who this savior was, but I knew he was a dear friend of mine for confronting the slug that wrecked havoc in the room. “Well, I have weakened the fiend, now let me finish the deed, intruder!” the larger shadow yelled. “That fiend, you so speak of, is my best friend and you will not touch him as long as I stay breathing,” responded the gentlemen. My faulted matter still lay unharmed as long as the man continued to taunt the ugly beast before me. My mind recounted the man, “a broad-shouldered loose-limbed swarthy fellow” (Dickens 103), with a nasty hunchback, and I had confirmed that this man was the abominable forge worker, Old Orlick. Interrupting my thought process, two more bodies, of a similar form to the first, had entered the crowded room. “Aye, now I am not looking for any trouble with you kids,” mumbled Orlick in a less self-assured volume. “I am afraid we can not agree to that statement Mister,” exclaimed the brighter character. With a sudden grab the ambiguous, kind man seemed to have picked up a large mallet-like object from the adjacent table. The metallic composition of the crude hammer filled my irritated nostrils with a burning sensation, which caused them to throb. The group of men had a passion that could not have been stopped by any brute force. With a rapid dodge, Orlick, a boar of a creature, jittered past the young men with fear and instability, a feeling that I had recently experienced. “T’hainnk ya sur” I muttered, with extreme relief. The shadows looked down upon my body in disbelief. Still trapped in the immense darkness, I composed a better statement of mind and decided to recount the severities that just transpired. In the same instant I heard responsive shouts, saw figures and a gleam of light dash in at the door, heard voices and tumult, and saw Orlick emerge from a struggle of men as if it were tumbling water, clear the table at a leap, and fly out into the night! (395)

“Heheh if you think you are leaving here alive, Wolf, then you are terribly mistaken,” grunted the oafish shadow.

Hailey Tully

Page 36: WHS Scrap Paper 2014