FLIGHTThe Literary Magazine of Brentwood Academy

Vol. XXXII 2016

“It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creativeexpression and knowledge.”

Albert Einstein

We wish to dedicate Flight 2016 to Mrs. Lisa Springman upon the occasion of her retirement from Brentwood Academy. We celebrate her wisdom in the classroom, her thoughtful and

discerning assessments, her passion for reading, and her inspiration to model excellence for all she touched.

Flight is printed by TOOF/American Digital Company.

The Flight staff would like to thank Mr. David McQuiddy III ’78, and his staff for their assistance with the magazine.

Thanks to Mrs. Debbie Dunn for her artistic eye, Mrs. Susan Shafer for her insights and suggestions, Ms. Lindsay Fowlkes ‘86 for her expert proofing and advice, and Mr. Curt Masters

for his support of the magazine.

Flight2016

Brentwood Academy’s Literary MagazineVol. XXXII

Brentwood Academy is a co-educational, independent, college-preparatory school dedicated to nurturing and challenging each whole person—body, mind, and spirit—to the glory of

God.

www.brentwoodacademy.com

Editor in Chief Maddie Jarrard ‘16Associate Editor Caroline Archer ‘17Advisor Mrs. Cameron Phillips

Abby Austin ‘16 Darby Brown ‘17 Claire Cheeseman ‘17Caroline Dean ‘17 Michael Dennison ‘16 Lila Dyer ‘18Mary Capers Elder ‘16 Emme Fitts ‘17 Noah Franks ‘16Bekah Friday ‘16 Sarah Friday ‘16 Liz Gibbons ‘16Alayna Holbert ‘18 Carter Kilpatrick ‘17 Madeleine Lamb ‘17Olivia Lentchner ‘18 Sydney Marks ‘17 Will McClellan ‘17 Vayle McKay ‘18 Kit Myers ‘17 Katherine Nesbitt ‘17Austin Peat ‘17 Michael Renner ‘16 Allie Sheets ‘17Michalea Grace Shofner ‘17 Micah Skinner ‘18 Anna Stephens ‘16Sommer Grace Weldon ‘16 Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16 Jeffrey Williams ‘16Kayla Williamson ‘16 Katherine Wilson ‘16

Art Staff

Mary Capers Elder ‘16 Sophia Lauer ‘16 Kit Myers ‘17Abby Phillips ‘16 Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16 Mrs. Debbie Dunn

Literary Staff

ArtworkUp, Up and Away Mary Capers Elder Front CoverBreaking Free Kit Myers 1Reptile Eye Micah Skinner 3The Diver Sophia Lauer 5AP Audit Hollingsworth Tiblier 8Innocence of Youth Sophia Lauer 10Grid Painting Nicholas Dikhtyar 11/12Landscape with Green Leopard Mac Toman 1520th Century Style Pop Clayton Ladd 17Ear of Corn Isabelle Moser 18Breaking Free Wren Aronoff 21Going Places Sophia Lauer 25Breaking Free Alex Brinkman 28Light and Mood Elizabeth Wheeler 30Southern Belle Tatum Tucker 31/32In the Bag Makayla James 33Abby Elizabeth Wheeler 34I Saw a Tree Wren Aronoff 35Identity #3 Mary Capers Elder 41/42AP Audit Makayla James Back Cover

Abby Austin ‘16 Darby Brown ‘17 Claire Cheeseman ‘17Caroline Dean ‘17 Michael Dennison ‘16 Lila Dyer ‘18Mary Capers Elder ‘16 Emme Fitts ‘17 Noah Franks ‘16Bekah Friday ‘16 Sarah Friday ‘16 Liz Gibbons ‘16Alayna Holbert ‘18 Carter Kilpatrick ‘17 Madeleine Lamb ‘17Olivia Lentchner ‘18 Sydney Marks ‘17 Will McClellan ‘17 Vayle McKay ‘18 Kit Myers ‘17 Katherine Nesbitt ‘17Austin Peat ‘17 Michael Renner ‘16 Allie Sheets ‘17Michalea Grace Shofner ‘17 Micah Skinner ‘18 Anna Stephens ‘16Sommer Grace Weldon ‘16 Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16 Jeffrey Williams ‘16Kayla Williamson ‘16 Katherine Wilson ‘16

Art Staff

Mary Capers Elder ‘16 Sophia Lauer ‘16 Kit Myers ‘17Abby Phillips ‘16 Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16 Mrs. Debbie Dunn

Table of ContentsPoetry and Prose

Original Caroline Archer 1Inside Out Jeffrey Williams 2The Scientist Michael Rankin 3Contrarian Michael Dennison 4Never Better Zane Gray 4Look Up Noah Franks 5Fields of White Sommer Grace Weldon 6Blistering Well Michael Dennison 6Etched in the Past Katherine Wilson 6Death Comes For All of Us Will McClellan 7A Life, Time Caroline Archer 8Deafening Silence Sarah Friday 8I Will No Longer Fear Her Riley Clemmons 9Sonnet #27 Michael Renner 10Locks and Crosses Darby Brown 11A Champion’s Story Maddie Jarrard 12Tombstone Michael Renner 13The Door Allie Sheets 14Apartments at Night Noah Franks 14No Cell Service? Caroline Dean 15The Clock Kayla Williamson 16Monday Morning Zane Gray 17Ribbons Allie Sheets 18A Twisted Story Maddie Jarrard 18The Wealth of Kindness Olivia Lentchner 19The Red Carnation Sarah Bryant 20I Live in an Art Museum Elizabeth Wheeler 21Bigger Than Theory Micah Skinner 22I Took a Class on Logic and It Made No Sense Jonah Franks 23Immortal Words Reagan Taylor 24Times Like These Caroline Archer 25Six Feet Deep Darby Brown 25Mirror Mirror, on My Wall Lauren Parker 26Within a Walking Day Micah Skinner 27The Author Kit Myers 28Beautiful Composite Claire Cheeseman 29Be Still Caroline Archer 30The Werewolf Kit Myers 31Pastor of Rap Abby Romine 32The Way We Danced Katherine Nesbitt 33Dipsomania Caroline Decker 34Political Debate Preston Cornelius 35Morning Masterpiece Katherine Wilson 36Empty Sarah Ann Johnson 37Impressions on the Heart Lauren Williamson 38Tipping House Carter Cheesman 39Man’s Best Friend Austin Peat 40Take Me Home Maddie Jarrard 41Snapbacks and Tattoos Sarah Friday 41Sinking House Livi Goodgame 42Lonely Living Will McClellan 43

OriginalSometimes I wonder—Have I ever assembled a thoughtThat is exclusively my own?Does anything remainThat hasn’t been said,That hasn’t been done?Or is my intellect simply an eclectic patchworkOf ideas borrowed from my life’s library,All able to be citedAnd returned to their original owner?Has every picture been taken,Every constellation charted,And every mountain already summited?Is there any more “new” on earth,Or are we living on a planetOf recycled matter....

Caroline Archer ’17

Breaking Free, Kit Myers ‘17

1

Inside OutI’m screaming at the top of my lungs,And I’m making a scene around myself,And I’m looking like I am going insane,And I’m yelling to fix my mental health!

I am calm. I have everything together.I am brave. I am ready to take on the day.

I go with the flow like seaweed in an ocean swell.I am flexible to the obstacles that come my way.

That word you said makes me cringe and cry.You found the phrase that hurts the most.My biggest insecurity exposed to the world.This insult you cannot help but boast.

What a witty joke you just made!I laugh to make you know that I am fine.

I make a sarcastic remark to show indifference.I even tell you in response something kind.

I am so sad that I didn’t win.My dreams are ripped out from the base.I have no idea what I’m going to do.I just want to punch your sorry face.

“That’s so great for you!” I forcibly say.I know you worked so hard to achieve this.

We should go celebrate this joyous occasion.I just want to hug you and give you a kiss.

Please let me express what I think!I just want someone to listen to my thoughts!If I‘m not liberated, I am going to internally die.These ideas can no longer be fought!

Shut up! The world will not like the real youThis fake identity is what enables you to survive.

Just be content with what you have under your mask.Although you could breathe, people won’t let you thrive!

Jeffrey Williams ‘16

2

The ScientistAll he ever saw of her anymore were the reflections in his beakers. He didn’t look up much these days. Didn’t need to. His eyes focused, unwavering, on his projects. Nonetheless, her presence comforted him. Her perfume wafted and hung in the air of the laboratory like leaves seem to drift in the fall breeze. Even though he was encapsulated by his experiments, he was reassured and comforted simply by the awareness that she was there.

She felt frustrated. He never seemed to look up at her. She noticed that he was particularly enthralled by a set of beakers lined parallel to her. Most of the time, she’d stand near the back of the laboratory and observe his work. He appeared to have an infinite source of energy, a generator where his heart should be. She craved his attention. Just a word her way would do, any word. She even wore that perfume he liked so much when they first met. She grew exhausted of her attempts to garner his attention. So, she did what any sensible woman would do.

The next day, he picked up one of his beakers. He looked at it, hesitated, and dropped the beaker onto the ground. The shards of his obsession reflected nothing back. He suddenly noticed a lack of warm familiarity in the air. He crossed his arms as if a chill had run through his body. He continued to stare at the beaker. Not because he couldn’t look away, but because he was scared to.

Michael Rankin ‘16

Reptile Eye, Micah Skinner ‘18

3

ContrarianTo be free is to do nothing, and nothing comes to you,

My Qualities are what I want Them

My Loves fall where I place Them

While I think of a better Way, there is only a different One.Counter-culture is contrived, birthed of desperation, and drowned the same way.Disenchanted, tired, devoid of compliance,This is how hope dies.

Michael Dennison ‘16

Never BetterThe cold. Familiar buzz of earth and fly.He lifts his lids to see the breath of life.The arm’s reluctant reach and just one slice.The warm panacea: a surgeon’s knife.

He may have thought himself on the ceiling—Or wall—if not the gap in the concrete.The sun and moon take turns in woolly swing,To wake and sleep: a never ending street.

In towns, viewing the faces moving throughHis gaze, he saw the defined breath and thought,“It is the same as mine.” Did they pursueThe same as him? Their eyes a void, minds shot.

Tonight, his clear lover—a Christ derived—Would dance with him until he felt alive.

Zane Gray ‘16

4

Look UpIf only we could look aboveAnd see what floats in skies thereof.If only we could see it right,The day’s array of fleeting night,And gain the sight of He who’s light. Great hues of coming day anewThat brings us ancient color’s blueBefore our green of planet grewOur world in perfect order—view.

If only we could feel the Earth.From cosmic dust, creation’s worth.If only we could feel it spin,And know what burns from deep within.

That iron of our mantle closeIn diagrams we miss the most.Beneath our feet the lava turnsFor our attention does it yearn!

If only we could start to stopAnd see the sun in sights atop.The keeper of our world and moon,That reigns above on highest noon.

The warmer of our solar spaceWhere comets dance and planets faceThe winds of radiation’s grace.Why have we placed this truth efface?

If only we could step abackAnd see with lens our heedless track.How have we missed with open lackThe beauty of our dotted black?

More than thoughts and formulaeBeyond the reach of setting dayOur world in chaos: “milky way”True order out of disarrayOf colored clouds in nebulae.

If only we could see our size,And find our space to realize,That vast of interstellar deep,That vast of our cold minds asleep.

Noah Franks ‘16

The Diver, Sophia Lauer ‘16

5

Blistering WellForgiving of but never giving back,The wolf holds all his sorrows in a drawer.His treasure is in cloth, a broken fourTeen dreams that never came, unpolished plaques.

On one was just love left for better days.Two more shone light to stars forever gone.To say the vacancy was utter con,Was to deny that in lain better ways.

The Four, the Holy number; no eventShook the earth or filled empty valleys with vaporsIt never could hold candles to torrents,or lay in bed with lecherous traitors.

“My love, my love, the one broken goal;For only emptiness swallowed my soul.”

Michael Dennison ‘16

Etched in the PastI trek the overgrown pathWith hidden goalsAnd forgotten plansWith grasping grassesAnd whispering windsI listen for lost wordsOf conversations long pastOf light laughterAnd careless wanderingsMarked by footprintsEtched in the groundAnd painted in the past.

I keep movingBeyond the grasp of the alluring pastAnd towards where the footprints end.

Katherine Wilson ‘16

Fields of WhiteHe sleeps so peacefully on fields of white,Colliding with the rolling skies of pink.

His only hope for getting through the nightDepends on if they hear his soundless clink.The haze fades off, making the scene so clear,

As red soaks deep in soil filled with rot. Time has run out—there is no longer fear

For battles raging that could not be fought.The screams, the gasps, many blood-curdling cries

Echoed from the besieged metropolisAs hope of blameless victims gravely dies;

No words could stop the destruction of this.He slips deeply into wake-less slumber;

This cold death was just another number.

Sommer Grace Weldon ‘16

6

Death Comes For All Of UsCERTIFICATE OF DEATHName: George NicholsCause of Death: SuicideThe mortician says a look at their text messages might provide a better insight to their decision...

Riley Smith, Significant Other:Feb. 15th

Hey!! So pumped for tonight. This movie is going to be awesome!!Hey, you there?

You aren’t answering my texts…Hello???

Y’know, a real friend would have answered someone’s texts. Especially when it concerns date night. We’re through. Don’t talk to me ever again, you loser.

Mother:Feb. 15th

Missed Calls(10)Are you out tonight? I’ll talk to you when you get home. Tell me when you go someplace… so

disrespectful.

Father:Feb. 15th

Your mother says to answer her calls. Stop being a pain.

Becca Barker, Group Project Partner:Hey. We need to work on this project ASAP.

Are you not going to help me get a good grade? Are you that selfish?God, you’re no help. I’ll just do it all myself. Ugh, worthless.

~~~“Why do you think he did it, Doctor?”

“I’m not entirely sure, James. You’re the investigator, for God’s sake… shouldn’t you be the one to figure these things out? Perhaps he was afraid of the moment where someone

actually appreciated him. He couldn’t live with the immense responsibility of being important to someone… so instead of shouldering that burden, he decided to give up. That… that is the

only logical reason I can deduce from such illogical evidence.”“No wonder he did it… the kid seemed like a pain.”

“It’s just weird, that’s all… I mean, he’s the fourth one this week.”“You’d think kids these days would have something to hold on to, Doctor.”

“I suppose this is what happens when that ‘something’ leaves.”

Will McClellan ‘17

7

AP Audit, Hollingsworth Tiblier ‘17

A Life, TimeTime is a potter,Molding the clay of humanity.As years elapse,She stretches our limbsAnd lengthens our torsos,Adding substance to our bodiesAnd strength to our bones.When we laugh and when we cry,She etches lines into our facesAnd plants the memories inside.As Time passes,She begins to stoop our backsAnd soften our bodies.Aching joints create a hymnThat graces only her ears.Discreetly, she quickens her step,And the transformations continue apace.Time gifts us withGentle limbs and knowing smiles,And our countenancesEncompass the sum of our exploits.Then slowly, serenely,She says farewellAnd endows us to the stars.

Caroline Archer ’17

Deafening SilenceWe never let ourselves sit still Because silence is what we fear most.We drown our mind in any kind of noiseTo deafen the realities we cannot stand to hear. Our transient minds suffocate when the pollution of stimulants dissipates with the wind, when we are forced to confront the void of solitude in a deep abyss, when stripped of the veil of oblivion, the mirror reflects truth.For sometimes, it is silence that screams loudest in our minds.

Sarah Friday ‘16

8

I Will No Longer Fear HerA blurry silhouette lingers timidly before me,Her features softened by the dim of the room.Messy tendrils of a shadowy mane caress her neck’s delicate veins.Pearly teeth bury themselves into her pillowy red lips.The footprints inky tears blacken her cheeks.Damp lashes burden her heavy lids.

She looks at my face but she does not look at me.I search for her eyes but she looks downAs if there is something she does not want to see.Perhaps she is afraid that when her eyes meet mineWhat she discerns will not be the image she has locked in her mind.What if the person staring backIs not the one she believes she knows?Maybe she fears the question:“Where did that girl go?”What if the face that sharpens into viewIs one and the same but different and new?Perhaps it hurts too much to realizeThat the familiar tends to run away without so much as a goodbye.

And all the same, I know it is me she does not want to face.It is my past, my scars, and my mistakes.It is the lies that enticed me and drew me close.It is the truths that my conscious hands decided to let go.It is the words that slipped freely from off of my tongueThat ricocheted around me leaving bruises as they stung.

My musings roar as regret whirls through my mindWondering if it ever goes away, pain of this kind.Wondering if you will ever look at me the same.Wondering if you might ever love me without the spite of blame.If you would look me in the eyes, maybe I would know.Maybe a glance could be the first step on a winding, remedial road.I take a breath, deciding that I will no longer fear her.So I lift my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Riley Clemmons ‘18

9

Sonnet #27Before this blaze alight in me did burnI asked not for a friend to stand by me,Content was I to stay alone and free.To stand astride with you I did not yearnMy heart was loathe to share for you to learn.A longing for someone to care for meI thought that no, surely it cannot be.I flew away to hide, this feel to spurn.But you, you came and stole me from my home,My heart, exposed—to you, it was your own.We stay each other from the useless roamA warmth, I feel, it fills me to the bone.Not long ago I wished from this to run,But now, I hold your heart and face the sun.

Michael Renner ‘16

Innocence of Youth, Sophia Lauer ‘1610

Locks and CrossesLock away the key,My dear,Hide behind these walls.The monsters are creeping,Crawling,Their faces just like dolls.

Lock away your heart,My dear,The dark is coming soon.All the lights are dimming,Fading,Lost beyond the moon.

Lock away your soul,My dear,Save it for tomorrow.The good in us is failing,Losing,This black is full of sorrow.

Lock away the world,My dear,The sky is now alight.The brilliant flames are sizzling,Crackling,No time to say goodbye.

Lock away these words,My dear,This fight is now a loss.The time we spent living,Loving,Has now become our cross.

Darby Brown ‘17

11

A Champion’s StoryHer ladder was a steep one, bars pronged with thornsrungs that seared her skin.

She clung to each bar,As if that small success kept her from falling.

Heart pounding, sweat in her eyesVoices seducing her with dreams of gold.She forgot the ground.

She wiped her mind of the subjunctiveConjured an image of herself in a throneTightened her grip on scattered thoughts.

The atmosphere grew cold, her chest grew tightTears rolled down her cheeks, Falling as salty rain back to the ground

Reflected in her eyes was the golden throneHer heart felt close to burstingThe voices in her head were just her own.

She climbed into the golden throneFrom the clouds she saw ant-like creatures on the ground.Humans.

She felt a drop run through her hairGold began melting, absorbing skin and bodyA metallic goddess resting in the clouds.

An idol she became— a trophyInside the shell of gold was not a humanBut a success story.

Maddie Jarrard ‘16

Grid Painting, Nicholas Dikhtyar ‘19

12

Tombstone Cal never did like driving at night. Two-ton vehicles speeding towards each other in the hazy twilight seemed rather illogical. He never let Mabel drive in the dark. She thought he was ridiculous, but Cal didn’t care. He did it because he loved her, after all. He just wanted her to be safe. And tonight was the opposite of that: safe. It was misty, like on those mornings when it gets cold really fast, and a steady drizzle kept falling. The roads were slick enough from the rain, but it was September, and the fallen leaves just made it worse. Cal remembered why he used to take the bus. But that didn’t mat-ter now. He was a smart man and a good driver. He stayed a healthy five miles per hour within the limit, and he had played “Need for Speed” as a kid, if that counted for anything. As he passed under a streetlight, the pale yellow shimmer revealed a leaf that was stuck to the hood of his Jetta. Cal ignored it. It was just a leaf. But then he looked at it again. And then he looked away. And then he looked back. Something about the leaf was interesting to Cal. Maybe nothing in particular about it, just that it was a leaf. He kept looking at it. Every time he got to a stoplight he looked at it. Whenever he made a left turn he looked at it. Cal didn’t know why he was looking at it. He just was. And then all of a sudden he got tired of looking at it. All of a sudden he hated that leaf. It had been stuck to his hood for too long, and it was time that it went. Cal had no reason to hate the leaf. But he did. And there was nothing he could do about it. The rain kept it glued to the silver paint. Part of the leaf was sticking up, so he abandoned his speed limit rule and took it to sixty. But the leaf wouldn’t come off. Cal looked down and saw he was doing seventy. He realized Mabel was right. He was being ridiculous. It was just a leaf. Cal slowed down. But he kept looking at the leaf. It was still there.Suddenly he was determined. Cal was enraged. He was not about to lose to a leaf. He floored it. The whole time he stared at the leaf. It started flapping wildly in the wind. Cal wasn’t wor-ried about the rain anymore. He just knew he hated that leaf. He was close to eighty now, and it was still there. Then Cal realized he wasn’t on the road anymore. There was a right turn, and he had missed it. He also realized that not just a leaf but a whole tree was about to be stuck to his hood. He didn’t even have time to brake. Then the airbag was in his face. Cal didn’t care about the leaf anymore. He didn’t really care about any-thing. He just wanted Mabel to keep the leaves off his tombstone.

Michael Renner ‘16

13

The DoorI see a doorSimple, plain, whiteIt invites me to unveil its secretsI am fearful yet intriguedShall I open it to unending beauty?Or to a torment of eternal pain?Perhaps I shall return another day

I see a doorStriped, playful, purpleIt calls to me to solve its mysteryMaybe it contains another worldFull of wonders beyond imaginationBut curiosity shall not kill this cat

I see a doorOld, rotting, grayIt pleads hoarsely for me to turn its knobI have watched it for yearsYet I have not succumbed to its criesStill, I reach towards the brassBut fear slaps my hand away

I see a doorMenacing, bolted, blackIt roars at me to fleeI tug at its chains ferventlyBut the cold metal rejects my pleasIt will not submit after all these yearsThe time for answers has passed

Allie Sheets ‘17

Apartments at NightI see the city streets below—The people walking to and fro.I watch them enter city homes—Apartments with no curtains closed.And thus I enter foreign lives,But do they see me?

Their silent lives before me now—So many worlds; I question how.Such people I will never meet—The social structure incomplete.Thus they don’t know me.

Upon the human sonder’s growth,The background I have studied longI see must be the same afar;If someone were to look at me,How similar a view they’d see!

All are such apartments,And all are seen from views afar,But when one keeps their windows open,At least the winds will stay enthralled,And enter in our lives unmarred.

Although onism does encroach—As difficulties do approach.I will surmount despondencies,Because more than myself I know,Because I see the city streets below.

Noah Franks ‘16

14

Landscape with Green Leopard, Mac Toman ‘18

No Cell Service?A mismatched family –

A team.Spending the evening together.

Glancing around, I see no phones – Only games, laughter, stories and advice.

A father, playing a game with a boy who is not his son.A coach, battling one of his runners in ping pong.Two girls on a couch, deeply engrossed in a story.Tables crowded with teammates playing games.

Laying down a card, I take in my friends surrounding me.Who would have thought no cell service could be this much fun?

Caroline Dean ‘17

15

The ClockI lie on the floor in a colorful roomIt is naptime in first grade, but I’m not tiredI have been quiet for five whole minutes.I know because the big hand was on the 12And now it’s on the 1.All I want is to get up, but I feel like I will be in naptime forever.I look into your face and make my one request,Speed up.

I stare at the presents under the tree,And then at the sign that reads,“Days until Christmas: 4”Even though I am nine years old, four days is foreverI have to sit and wonder what those boxes are for days.The anticipation is making me giddy.I turn to the oven, when cookies are baking.I look at the small numbers, where you stand in green.I beg you,Speed up.

I just saw a senior girl walk byShe got asked to prom and she is holding flowers.When I get that old, I won’t have to worryI will grow into my long legsAnd mom will let me wear the tall high heelsAnd I will never be awkward again.I pass you quickly in the hallway.The tired look in my eyes says it all,Speed up.

I look down at the page.If the secant of line x creates a transverse plain,what is the inverse of x,or something like that.I look at the page, then to youYou look more menacing than everYour face is distorted by my fear and hatred of testing.I have answered every question, the suspense is tortureI just want to turn it in, and I make yet another plea,Speed up.

I opened an envelope today from a collegeAnd the first word was congratulations.This is what I have been working for.When I read the words my family jumped for joy,And then wrapped me in a collective hug.In that moment there was no place I’d rather be.I was in the kitchen, so I looked at you just above the stoveI saw the green numbersYou looked the same as you did that Christmas when I was nine.I have one last request for you,Slow down.

Kayla Williamson ‘16

16

Monday Morning Light reflected off the ice road like a crystalline dreamscape. The fluorescent abyss was a blinding beauty, and the old man contemplated the latent significance of the expanse. He was near-ing the end of his days and had begun to wander down roads looking for any transcendental revela-tion imbued within the natural world. No one was bold or stupid enough to brave the cacophony of ice and asphalt. He lit up to amplify the surreal terror before him; it was a speedy death on the ice or a slow, tedious one in the years to come. Caressing the familiar leather of the wheel, he realized that the reflected wavelengths were a vapid beauty, like a beautiful woman with eyes that show nothing. There was a woman–long ago in the cesspool of time and memory–who seemed to understand him: fears, hopes, desires, doubts, regrets, aspirations…In the dawn of his life, memory came like the rivulets of water on his windshield. A name or face showing up here or there–vague spectres of words and features–only to be swept away and forgotten the next minute. He had to ask himself if his dubious image was the real thing. Foibles and mannerisms materializing through a cycle of cognitive fabrication: the dimples, the silk dress, the way she would grab his upper-arm and, with just the right force, walk her fingers down to entwine within his. The old man gave up on this schema of uncertainty and decided that time and memory are two concepts that man has unwavering fidelity toward, but care nothing for us. He was awoken by the shrill howling of a metallic beast. Some remnant of his childhood superstition came back to him and a panicked cognizance shook him. An inverted automobile was exchanging paint with the ground in the adjacent lane. The old man entertained the idea of stopping to assist the driver, but felt that he had lived his life for himself up until that point; there was no reason to turn around now.

Zane Gray ‘16

20th Century Style Pop, Clayton Ladd ‘1817

RibbonsInaudible sounds glide past earsMumbles and murmurs only heardBuried deep within, lays the home of fearMovements become blurred

Dry eyes turn wetSteady hands begin to shakeInside the body is a threatLoving hearts are the ones to break

Phones ring across the neighborhood“I’m sorry, I’m always here for you”A sentence too common to do any goodBut only said when nightmares become true

The hope is in a ribbonLiving with torment, but dying with peaceThousands live with stories unwrittenAll suffering will start to cease

All are altered by another’s lifetimeEven mine

Allie Sheets ‘17

A Twisted StoryPlay journalist, play GodSimplify me so you can hate me or love me.Scratch my figure in black and white crayonsCondense me to binary, cut off my complexities.

I am yours to mold, beauty and horror alike.Flaunt the side of me you love the most,Dress me up in hyperbole and deceitTo cover the hollowness you built me upon.

But be careful, for I am unpredictableTip me to one side, and the audience may see I indeed have three dimensionsThe flaming passion of raw truth may roar from the crowdThe masterpiece you created, demolished

Maddie Jarrard ‘16

Ear of Corn, Isabelle Moser ‘18

18

The Wealth of KindnessBeneath the surface of worldly pleasures

lies vast underlain meaning and hidden treasures.Dazzling gold in the richest of hues,

as old to Him as last weeks news.Money exchanged, happiness bought

lacks meaning, and importance, as well as thought.There is value in a smile and riches in a giving hand,

society’s comforts block ability to understand. Buried within the layers of the greedy earth,

the treasure of kindness displays its grandiose worth.Silver coins, copper pennies stored and saved in a vault,

when confined in, will become a devastating fault.Kindness is shared, loving nature freely given

not hoarded to become the purpose of living.Heavy chests brim-full of sparkling, splendid gems,

are a burden to carry and hold nothing within.To dig deep into one’s heart, no matter the size,

is to find where Zacchaeus’ fortune lies.The best commodities are not bought or sold, but exchanged

a kind word will inspire one to do them same.Marvelous, gleaming colors of metallic ores

serve no purpose, and only act as lures.“Money equals power, wealth equals gain”

but they also bring misery and pain.Kind manner is charismatic, and it brings nothing but joy

seeking to facilitate, not to destroy.Possessions are temporary and last only so long

with a great wealth of compatibility, one can never go wrong.Searching for a myriad of riches, in the sullied world,

will uncover items grander than all things shimmering and pearled.

Olivia Lentchner ’18

19

The Red CarnationHe wore his spoils with dignity,

A red carnation in his button-hole,Pretending to be greatly at ease.

Artificiality seemed to him necessary in beauty—Cool things and soft lights and fresh flowers.

Fervid and florid inventionsBlazed into unimaginable splendor,

The glaring affirmation of the omnipotence of wealth.A tropical world of shiny, glistening surfaces and basking ease,

His bit of blue-and-white Mediterranean shore bathed in perpetual sunshine,Like the fairy world of a Christmas pantomime.He grew more and more vivacious and animate,

Gave himself up to the peculiar intoxication.It had for him all the allurement of a secret love

To be carried out, blue league after blue league, away from everything.His set smile did not once desert him;

Lulled by the sound of the wind, the warm air, and the cool fragrance of flowersHis senses were deliciously and yet delicately fired.With something of the childish belief in miracles,

All stupid and ugly things slid from him;There would be no wretched moment of doubt.

A quick gust of wind brought the rain down with sudden vehemence.A certain hysterical brilliancy

Sinking back forever into ugliness and commonness.The grey monotony stretched before him in hopeless, unrelieved years;

It was the old depression exaggerated.He had looked into the dark corner at last—

A shudder of loathing,A short apprehensive dread,

A curious sense of relief.The carnations in his coat were drooping with the cold, their red glory over.

The gruesome game of intemperate reproach,This revolt against the homilies by which the world is run,

A losing game in the end.

Found poem from Willa Cather’s “Paul’s Case”

Sarah Bryant ‘18

20

I Live In An Art MuseumI live in an art museum.Colors clothe me in effortless wonder,And every stroke from the paintbrush has a purposeAs it fills every nook and every open space and everything between.Every living work of art resides here too, in all shapes and sizes.Some are radiant, some are dark, some sway between the two.Each work has the same artist, yet a multitude of inspirations.Not all of us are compatible; there are works I am partial to.But all of us live here, all of us are a magnificent splendor.If we marvel at the details and the story and the entirety of art,Should we not look beyond the shapes and colors and texturesAnd marvel at a person’s details, story, and heart?

Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16

Breaking Free, Wren Aronoff ‘17

21

Bigger Than TheoryAccording to Genesis, God created the heavenly bodies upon the fourth day.On the Fourth of July, I watched fireworks create light in spectacular arrays.After the smoke receded, I sunk into the lush grass and rested upon my back, Not expecting another one, CRACK!

That CRACK! reverberated to my soul from my ears,And thanks to Galileo, I no longer lounged in dew down here.I dove through the lens of a telescope, focused on the sky,And saw the Heavens staring back into my eyes.

Dodging shooting stars, I escaped the thick atmosphere,Reaching outer space, to heights exceeding my fears.I skated upon the rings of Jupiter and swam through stellar supernovas,Until my mind wandered upon the name of Jehovah.

Then I pondered the Theory theory, which I was taught in school.I had faith in Science science because explosions are cool.But then logic dug a blackhole, a grave, deep within my brain,And the stars, slashing spacetime, started to strain!

Solar-flares engulfed my heart with throbs, with pounds!I sat upon the Sun, being drowned in that sound!Like a meteor striking, I realized that I could be so terribly wrong.My heart was CRACKED open by One who is incomprehensibly strong.

Instability into stability?It seemed this Theory theory could be filled with fallibility. I pondered human imperfection and interpretation of how things appear,And my previous beliefs were buried deep within that blackhole, faster than a light year.

Laws govern the Universe, but “Law,” is a curious word;For the name of a Writer seems to be heard.The Heavens and Earth no longer proclaim the glory of Science science,But rather the glory of One with much more prominence.

And just as the Planets strain to run away,The Sun’s warming gravity yearns for them to stay.Though elliptic orbits occur and sometimes We drift,God pursues us in love, oh what a priceless Gift!

Whether created from an explosion by the Great Chemist, molded by the hands of the Great Potter,Or by means of God that humanity has not and never will discover… I may never truly know. So I descended unto the lawn, simply in awe of the Cosmos.And in the end, by one thought my brain was immersed: God’s love for us is far more infinite and complex than the breathtaking Universe.

Micah Skinner ’18

22

I Took A Class On Logic and It Made No SenseIn Geometry class, I will converse with youTo further explain what a letter can’t do!I’ll be honest since I’m talking to an angle.Pardon me of my Sin-1For confessing inThe two-dimensional…Just imagine a third, and this won’t sound so plane:My heart is radical with your name.You’re sweet as a snow conen-gon with the rain.

I used to think all girls were weird or mean,And I’d still, if it wasn’t for you Who inscribed on my heart what I write in degree.

I’m x and you’re y.I’m the hero, you’re the Heron.I’m pi and you’re phi.When I’m at zero, you’re always there, Adding a one, which is so far from noneThat to think of you I can’t be subtracted from.

‘Cause of you I stopped hearing the SAS from myPast. Your voice has left me with aChoice, and yours, with more volume, spoke my origin. It hasTaught me to live in the moment, but not like it’s fast.

I feel and I see, but I don’t know what’s real.Apothem you life’s askew, and with you it’s new.Pass or fail this test; evaluate my deal.Reciprocal or unreciprocated, I have toCos-1 I love you.

Jonah Franks ‘19

23

Immortal Words I do not want to be forgotten. I do not want my face to fade and my words to disintegrate between my lips. I want to defeat monsters with my bare hands and solve the greatest of mysteries. I want to be remembered as an adventurer and as a doer of all things once thought impossible. But I cannot, and it is a great sadness I must bear. My leg hangs limply from under my dress as useless as a log. Mother says I was born this way, but I cannot bring myself to believe her. How could the gods condemn me to such torture? I let out a sigh and use my forearm to shove the hair sticking to my forehead out of my face. The ground below me is dry and crumbly from the drought. I grab a fistful and smash it in between my fingers until it falls from my palm like brown rain. I can hear my brother shuffling a little ways up the hill probably playing with his sword again. Mother won’t give me a sword. She says there’s no point because I can’t properly use it. I nearly scream when an old woman plops onto the ground beside me. Her wrinkled skin hangs like curtains on her face. Everything about her looks stretched and soft other than her eyes. They are a steely gray harder than silver itself. She smiles at me, revealing a gummy mouth. “You are sad,” she says more like a statement than a question. I nod subtly, my heart pounding in my chest. I can’t run away. I’m about to call for my brother when she speaks again. Her words are barely literate. “I can fix that.” My words catch in my throat. I can’t speak. And suddenly I’m angry. “I do not need to be fixed for I am not broken.” She laughs as if my offense is endearing. She reaches into her crinkled gray cloak and pulls something out. It’s a wad of parchment thicker than my head. She offers it to me. I scoot farther from her. “For your adventures,” she whispers, offering it once again. Something inside me seems to catch fire at her words. I grab it from her, my heart pounding with such anticipation I can hear it in my ears. She’s then handing me a quill and ink. “Write until you can no more. Write un-til your hands ache and your heart stops. Have your adventures. Share them with the world. For within words there is truth and there is beauty.” And then she’s getting up, but without the ails of most old women. She walks gracefully and dangerously like a lioness. When she turns to face me once more she is no longer an old woman, but a goddess. Her skin shines like the moon and her eyes seem to burn into my soul. She nods at me once before disappearing into the air like mist. I sit there for a moment with my mouth agape and my heart in my throat. I have seen Athena and she has gifted me, the girl with a leg that doesn’t work. I then pick up the parchment and quill. I dip the tip in the ink and set it down on the page. The words come out in beautiful curls of black across the paper. How strange it is, I write, to see people as they are rather than what they pretend to be.

Regan Taylor ‘18

24

Times Like TheseTime, like gravity, is merely named by humanity.

It shifts ceaselessly; its dominion knows no bounds.As it drags us along,

We are left to futilely cast glances backwardsIn an attempt to retain the familiar.

Time is not constrained to the ticking of the clock,Nor is it limited to the pages of our calendars.

It takes our memories hostage,And the ransom for reminiscing the past

Is missing the present.Time also bears the secret of our destiny,

Not to be revealed until it meets us Face to face.

Caroline Archer ’17

Six Feet DeepSix feet deep—Six feet between you and me.The spaces I keepYour eyes will never see.

Headlights flashingOn a cold, dark night.Metal clashing:Is death a sting or a bite?

Then the waiting—Oh, the waiting: a lie.Blank stares, moments fading,Never ready for goodbye.

But the time came,The time for goodbye was met.And things were the same—Something you couldn’t accept.

Now time is drifting away—Again I’m lost to sleep.And yet here I lay:Six feet under, six feet deep.

Darby Brown ‘17

Going Places, Sophia Lauer ‘16

25

Mirror Mirror, On My WallMirror Mirror, on my wall

Does it really matter who is the fairest of them all?People tell me that I should not like what I seeSociety tells me that I should not try to be me

Mirror Mirror, on my wallShould I really care at all?

What you show me is only skin deepBut somehow it gives me restless nights of no sleep

Mirror Mirror, on my wallPlease, will you set me free?

Like a prisoner, you hold these chains on me.You keep me from being the person that I so wish to be

Yes Mirror, you keep me from being me

Mirror Mirror, on my wallI am a flower that cannot bloom, for you refuse to water my roots

Mirrror, why must you be so abstruse?Running my hands across my face

I wipe the salty tears from my rosy stained cheeksI will not let you keep me lying on the cold ground

Like a skyscraper, I will rise so high above the groundOn me, I thought you had a bind, but now I know that love is blind

Mirror Mirror, on my wallI should have never trusted you at allYou tried to point out all of my flaws

What you do not show is that my eyes are blue like the oceanMy laugh is radiant like the sun

You try to knock me downBut I will always end up at number one

Mirror Mirror, on my wallYou are the biggest fool of them all

I will always like what I seeI know now that I should not be afraid to be me

For you are just a broken piece of glassMirror, you should have known your bullying would not last

Lauren Parker ‘18

26

Within a Waking DayThe first hour, an American baby is read a fairytale involving friendship.He grows up to smile at his wrongdoer and offer forgiveness.

The second hour, a Sudanese toddler reads a storybook about water.He grows up to build wells in dozens of villages, providing clean water to many.

The third hour, an Iraqi girl reads a war story.She grows up to work with the United Nations, building refugee camps for people fleeing terrorist groups.

The fourth hour, a Brazilian child reads a poem about colors.He grows up to be an artist, sharing joy and inspiration through his work.

The fifth hour, a Chinese adolescent reads an article examining renewable resources. She grows up to work with the Chinese government, guiding factories to abate pollution.

The sixth hour, a Greek teenager reads a book explaining economics.He grows up to lift Greece out of its downward spiral, mending its currency and economy.

The seventh hour, a Colombian adult reads about the effects that homelessness has on children.She grows up to build an orphanage in which children are provided with meals and a family.

The eighth hour, an Ugandan man reads a novel concerning a boy unjustly imprisoned for years.He grows up to become a lawyer and releases dozens of unrightfully imprisoned children.

The ninth hour, a Mexican woman reads a novel about an ingenious business owner. She grows up to become a chief executive officer and provides jobs for thousands of Mexicans.

The tenth hour, an elderly Israeli woman reads a poem regarding peace.She grows up to be Prime Minister, mending Israeli-Palestine relations.

The eleventh hour, an old man doesn’t read.He doesn’t grow up.

The twelfth hour, I read. I read. I read. I don’t grow up. I store knowledge. I don’t grow up. I store knowledge.But what is knowledge stored? Knowledge is of no use unless used, unless shared.

The thirteenth hour, the world sleeps. The twenty-fourth hour, the world awakens.And ten countries are better off than they were before.

Micah Skinner ‘18

27

The Author The Author endlessly scours his map of a mind. Mountains of achievements, rivers of thought, and the great boulder of writer’s block. If only every last thought that passed through the world that rested under-neath his cap could be written down and seen by the world. If only every last idea that soared through the endless sky of his dreams that hid below his hair could be ad-mired by all. If only he could share what he has to say, but he can only write what he sees through his eyes. So he speaks to his pen, the weapon of choice. Takes a moment to plan, the calm before the war. Sets a small outline, the battle strategy. Cracks his knuckles, pre-paring the troops. Begins writing, the fight has started. Keeps writing, Oh, the painful length of war. Finishes writing, sweet victory. But all true creative men love what they create one moment hate it the next. So he destroys his work and goes back to the old drawing board. His best friend, the pen of course, does not speak against him. The pen only lets his friend do as he thinks best. The Author begins to pace, trying to put his mind on the right track. But, alas, the well of his mind is somewhat dry. The child that never grows up inside of him wants so badly to leave behind this work and go outside into world to live as though he hadn’t a care. But the man who contains the child reminds him about what could become of their effort. So the two sit down and start anew. Now the youth and joy and innocence of the boy has rallied with the wisdom and discipline and strength of the man so that they, together, can write.

Kit Myers ‘17

Breaking Free, Alex Brinkmann ‘1628

Beautiful Composite With the rain he came,

And with the wind he left.Like lightning he struck,

Bright, bold,enthralling, Yet fleeting.

Never did he linger,For he was a mountain man.

She was as steady as the river, Confidently flowing along,

With clarity of spirit.Like a compass her heart knew its path.

Never did she waver, For she was unshakable.

He wandered near and far,Never idling, always chasing,

Until one day,

He stopped.

A steady river had come into his path,Captivating him like never before.

Her steadiness became like a balm to his rough edges, Making him feel new and whole.

For she was confident, and determined, And yet she was gentle, lovely, and kind.

She remained intent on her path, Flowing along,Until one day,

She stopped.

Her way became obstructed by a mountain, Captivating her like never before.

Never before had someone so boldly stepped into her life.Completing the adventure that she had been missing,

Making her feel complete and safe.

For he was strong, clever, and brave, And yet he was compassionate, caring, and understanding.

Never again could he leave with the windNever again could her path be the same.

And so two became one,A beautiful composite.

Claire Cheeseman ‘1729

Be StillMovement never fails to captivate.From dancing leaves to rolling waves,Motion is a reflection of the beating of our heartsAnd the expansion of our lungs.

The earth never ceases in its revolutionsThe wind always sighs across our landscapeProgress occurs in transitAnd we refuse to quench our yearning for adventure.

For these very reasons, it is too simple to ignoreThe faint whispers, “Be still...Be still...”For tranquility requires temperance, And soundlessness calls for sacrifice.

But stillness continues to summon quietlyAnd I wonder— Is there development in drawing nearTo a presence so often numbed by the noise?

Could I find strength in times of simplicity,Or revival in my rest?Movement beckons, but the whisper remains.I must be still.

“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.”Exodus 14:14

Caroline Archer ’17

Light and Mood, Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16

30

The WerewolfA bitter breezedrifts through the treesand chills my weary bonesThe eerie howls of midnight owlsall shriek in different tones

The trodden stonethat seems to groanbeneath my aching feetLooks cold and greyagainst the frayof rhythmic, pounding sleet

To such a tunethe silver moonpeeks out from clouds and starsIts ghostly light breaks through the nightand shines upon my scars

The taste of bloodand tears and mudstill lingers on my tongueEach final breathof those with deathremains within each lung

And then it seemscome angry screamsfrom men filled with great ireWho’ll cut my throatshear my coator chase me till I tire

At then at lastThe worst has pastFor there’s the rising sunIt cures my eyesAnd lupine guiseAnd so my hunt is done

Kit Myers ‘17

Southern Belle, Tatum Tucker ‘17

31

Pastor of RapPastor,A favorite in the town,Scholarly and refined.

Spirit really burned in him,Tremble beforeA strong new sweet current of power,In the highways and byways of the town.

My voice is carrying a message into her soul,Far gone in secret sin.Smoked through the pages of a bookAnd bore a reputation of having a sharp tongue.

With a rush of new determination,His zeal to reach the ears and the soul of his new listener,To leave her,And delve into her soul.Bowing his head,Bowing gravely to the peopleAfire with secret pride.

Out into the streets,He persistently denied to himself the cause of his being there.Bitter cold,A test of my soul.

I have never dared to think.He did not know what he wanted.I am going to let myself think what I choose.Stared into the darkness thinking the blackest thoughts.

Gripping the edge,An instrument,Bearing the message of truthBeyond human understanding.

Lift my eyes again to the skies,Out of the darkness into the light of the righteousness,I will fly.

Found Poem from Sherwood Anderson’s “The Strength of God”

Abby Romine ‘18

32

The Way We Danced The sun had just barely begun to show itself over the still dark line of the horizon. As she stared off into the melancholy sunrise, a single tear fell from her eye, grazing her cheek before being stopped by her lips. She closed her eyes and quickly brushed the salty water from her face. There was not much time. Although she felt paralyzed, her muscles still moved like clockwork. She moved around the room with grace, like she had a thousand times before now…

Yet, somehow, this time was different… Suddenly, without her even noticing, the pen found its way into her right hand and hit the paper in her left.

My Darling, I am quite sure the thing I will remember the most is dancing with you. We would spin about with no one else around and with no music. It made no difference at all. We were the music. There was still a rhythm. There was still poetry, unlike any I had experienced before. There was no world left. There was just soundless music, you and I, dancing until we saw the sunrise. My heart aches that this will be no more. I cannot make you understand my reasons for leaving you behind. I feel weak with simply the thought of it, but I must go away. I am sorry for the pain we may have caused you, but it was not my intention. It is time for me to go, and I do not have a choice other than this. You will not believe me when I tell you this, but I love you deeply, and I am sorry that we will never dance again.

As she laid her pen to rest, she was certain that never again she would write with as much passion or pain as she did now. She tasted the salt from her tears yet again as the door clicked quietly behind her.

Katherine Nesbitt ‘17

In The Bag, Makayla James ‘1733

Dipsomania She loved him,it did not matter if she could not understand.He dismissed her from his mind.It was good for him to be drunkhe was innocent,He fell in love with the bottle.He wanted to suffer,to be hurt somehow.He thought he was satisfied.The night began to make itself felt.Half drunk with happiness—Intoxicating.It swept away illness,it let him escape.It left a deep impression on his mind,a waiting kind of silence.It sickened him,it left a scar on his soul.Hurt by the thieving drunkenness.Ashamed,he grew weary.Ugliness, crime, lust.He thought of mornings—mornings when wet dew glistened in morning light.He thought of the nights—nights he sat in silence in the darkness.Like the wind,flying helplessly,He was hurt.He kept his desires where he thought they belonged,Prostitution to the bottle.

Found poem from Sherwood Anderson, “Drink” in Winesburg, Ohio

Caroline Decker ‘18

Abby, Elizabeth Wheeler ‘16

34

Political DebateBack and forth they talk

Shepherding their flock.

To and fro, Debate

To whom can they relate.

A nation in despair

To crown their next heir.

A nation in ruin

Feigned with an illusion

Of prosperity and care.

Preston Cornelius ‘16

I Saw A Tree, Wren Aronoff ‘1735

EmptyA black pair of boots sits motionless by the door.

Her slow, shallow breaths synchronize with the drip of the sink.The car door slams, bouncing off the walls of the partly empty house.

The gray cat, her only companion, scratches at the door. Another man has left her, but she has grown to expect it.

By now, she is as dull to the pain as a river is to rain.She knew when she met him that he wouldn’t stay long.

She could tell immediately by the distant look in his dull brown eyes.She goes through men like a rich lady goes through shoes.

But none of them can fulfill her; she still feels empty. She searches for someone to complete her, but her heart refuses to be filled.

If only she knew that the answer won’t be found in another man.The completeness she seeks is directly in front of her.But for now, she stares blankly out the kitchen window

as she is left by another lover.

Sarah Ann Johnson ‘18

Morning MasterpieceThe pattern glistens with fresh drops of dewThat swirl with color and designs all through.They slide down the freshly made work of artSpun early before the fog rose to departTaking back its greedy tendrils that wantTo choke the rays of morning light and tauntThe sun to break through its slumber and revealThe handiwork of the artist new and surreal.

Katherine Wilson ‘16

36

Impressions on the HeartPaper can be reduced to ash, and a pen may run dry.Meaningless black words on a white page rarely make one cry.The effects of pen and paper are precisely temporary,However, they may resurrect deep-rooted memory.

Feckless words written with ink are much like a bee’s stinger.While the insubstantial words may sting, the pain won’t linger.Ink can’t last forever, but words’ meanings surely will.Hurtful things muttered years ago, I remember still.

Words themselves aren’t mordant arrowheads drawn from a quiver,But undoubtedly are the messages that hurtful words deliver. Whether helpful or hurtful, the spirit of language endures on the heart,Imprinted on the soul and mind, one can’t merely press, “restart.”

Taking on the world’s stress is hard enough on its own.Caustic words tear others down and make them feel alone.It is much like Hermes running a race with his winged feet head on,But without the help of teammates to hand off the baton.

It is natural for humans to hear negativity the clearest.Especially when it comes from those who are held nearest and dearest.It is for that very reason the voice of kindness must be spoken louder.A priority should be put on building others up and giving others power.

One kind word may be all it takes to brighten someone’s day.Just as a cloudy day can be brightened by a single sunshine ray.Everyone has the choice to think before they speak,And to speak life and truth into the hearts of everyone they meet.

The Creator of the world demonstrates this masterfullyAs he tells us all we were created wonderfully and fearfully.Those are simple black words written on the white pages of a book,But the meaning is powerful, something we cannot overlook.

The way that words are spoken cannot be reduced to ash.The pain the tongue delivers definitely can be bash.Hurting others can be done within the time frame of a blink,So thoughtfulness is required when handling such eternal ink.

Lauren Williamson ‘18

37

Tipping HouseA quaint house upon a cliff,

high above the sea.But strange sounds in the night—

bangs, screams; no one dares go near.

Consumed by fearthey can only peer

through the peaceful shroud of cloudssurrounding the dark precipice.

Inside, two people—one flesh now broken into two;

one lies wailing, weeping warm tears,with a black ring.

The other lies unmovingcold, a heart turned stone, and stoned.

Two tortured souls cannot become one—too much pain and what’s done is done.

Isolated from each other,from the world.

The waves slowly eroding the sides of the stone cliff,

threatening to tip their divided home.

Waves of pain. Wave after wave doing the same

thing they have always done.Slap, splash, spray.

Day after dayThey tear away the dirt from the side of the cliff.

The cliff bends, to the point of breaking,and finally snaps.

The slowly tipping house comes crashing down.

Carter Cheeseman ‘19

38

I am beginning to suspect that my family is racist.

They raise me differently, and I insist daily that they abate this.

They give me food, and I sleep most of the day.

I don’t have much else to do anyway.

They do not allow me to go to school.

And when I question them they comment on my drool.

When I take them on walks I always lead.

I make sure they are never in need.

I have taken to guarding my humble home.

Whenever any walk by I ensure they don’t roam

Anywhere near to my abode so dear.

My family has nothing to fear as long as I’m here.

But still I don’t know why I’m fed small pellets.

My parents might understand me if only they could smell it.

Just because of my height; just because of my size.

I know I’m seen differently in my family’s eyes.

I still give all my love despite my mistreatment.

But, for crying out loud, why can’t I eat what you get?!

It goes on without end, my story of desperation,

And when they call, “Good Boy!” I’m left in frustration.

Why am I “Good?” What do you mean?

Why do you care if I dig? Or if my feet are clean?

I know not how to improve my condition,

And despite my attempts at reason, my family still holds the supposition

That I am incapable of thought; incapable of reason.

Why does it matter if I enjoy hunting rodents in season?

I’m able to write poetry for crying out loud!

I deserve your racism Never nor Now!

Wait…

Perhaps I was mistaken about this racism insistence…

My family has just given me bacon…

I’m never able to resist it.

Austin Peat ‘17

39

Man’s Best Friend

Snapbacks and TattoosYou wear your mind on display for the world to see. Scars that remind of moments that should be forgotten. Pain becomes pleasure as artwork begins to walk.The melodious buzzing consumes my mind, as black in swirls in my eyes. My hand is inspired. A dragon is birthed on the canvas pulsing in front of me. For what I think, I ink.

Sarah Friday ‘16

Take Me HomeHer home is nestled between two oaksWhen the summer wind wakes them, they whisper,Telling stories of reunions with her loverEchoing the hushed exchanges once shared.

The rarity of peace was found in this homeIn a world away from worlds, safety seemed tangible.In the soft yellow ambience of summerIdleness for two was endless.

Silence was a familiar friend in this home—A quilt that comforted, formed by wordless communication.Eyes were all it took to express aweFor pastel skies and warm company.

Leaves began to blanket the groundThe tree’s conversations drew to a lullThe silence grew pricklyWords exchanged often cut.

The world lurched, then began to turn againTwo bodies were thrown off balanceAs the ground moved beneath their feet.

Chilled by cutting windsHearts became frozen and fragileTired eyes drew shutWith images of pastel skies on eyelids.

Maddie Jarrard ‘16

40

Sinking HouseI remember whenMy inside was loudFull of unpleasantCries and shouts.

I did not mind,For though they were mean,

I did not careThe noise couldn’t hurt me.

Then one day they stoppedAnd I could not pretend

That though I was never hurt, I was glad of its end.

Then came another noiseAnd it grew like the rainBut I could also feel it

Running through my veins.

At first it was nothingI did not mind nor careThen slowly, very slowly,I was becoming aware…

Of the drip off the ceiling,The gurgling walls,

The creaking of pipes,A splash in the hall…

Now I’m soaked to the bone,I’m beyond repair

And nobody mindsAnd nobody cares.

The ground is so thirstyBut it’s me that it’s drinking,So I guess I’ll just stand here

Sinking, sinking…

Livi Goodgame ‘19

41

Lonely LivingBeing alone is not so bad.

There. I went ahead and said it.People are scared to admit they’re lonely

But being alone is just where I fit.

I don’t doubt people bring you happiness.I don’t doubt people bring you love.

But let me tell you, being alonefits me just like a glove.

Alone with my thoughts, alone with my mindIt gives me plenty of time to think.

Creative ideas will flow from my mindBefore I even have time to blink!

Even when people say to me“Being alone is unhealthy.”

To that, I say, being alone with my mindWhy, that is what truly makes me wealthy.

Wealthy in spirit, Wealthy in mind,(In body, maybe not so much!)

But when it comes to thinking alonemy thoughts will never budge.

So yes, I am an introvertSo yes, people put me on edge

But being alone is what makes me ME…I will never change that. I pledge.

Alone time is not bad.Nor will it ever be.

So if you want to be alone for a bit…

Come be alonewith me.

Will McClellan ‘17

Identity #3, Mary Capers Elder ‘1642