Vol. XXVIIIFlight

Ryan Minnigan

The Literary Magazine of Brentwood Academy

I Have Walked

I have walked both ways on this road.I have seen both ends.

I have hung my toes off each edgeAnd surveyed the land ahead.

I have paced my bare feet raw and rough.I have felt each ridge and rock.

I have learned each curve of this trailAnd pondered my future each way.

But I don’t know which step to choose;Which leap to risk;

Which path to take.

So I will continue to tread this pathUntil my legs crumble beneath me

Or I find my way.

Molly Malone

Flight 2012Brentwood Academy’s Literary Magazine

Vol. XXVIII

Table of ContentsPoetry and Prose

“I Have Walked” “My Organs Are Escaping”“The Man in the Blue Coat”“Mr. Loverly“I AM”“Gravity”“Broke Bum Blues in E Minor”“My Brother”“The Narcissist”“Heavy Rocks”“Writer’s Block”“The Poet’s Wife”“Nothing”“Rebellion”“Sign Your Name on the X”“Like the Rain”“The Confessions of a Villain”“Finding Peace” “That Awkward Moment”“Jealous Planets”“Take Me”“Reputation’s Lament”“The Memory Catcher”“Saving Grace”“Change”“Slack”“The Night of Thanksgiving”“Candle”“Discernment”“Airplane”“Life Is No Snapshot”“Symphony of Myself”Untitled“Bottle of Tears”“Hush, Hush”“Fading Moments

Molly Malone Caroline CooksonLexie Harvey Kara AndersonFaith WhatleyCaroline CooksonBrian KerSamantha BecciKatherine DenneyCarolina MenesesSamantha BecciZiger HuffnagleReagan HeathMadison RennerNiko AmitranoCaylyn HarveyAmanda EastSamantha BecciBritta RistauLexie HarveyKingsley EastMadison RennerKristen JacksonHaley BuskeSarah CliftonLindsey KellerBecky JohnsonFaith WhatleyMallory GlasgowMolly MaloneLexie HarveyZiger HuffnagleLindsey KellerLexie HarveyJacqueline LunsfordJulia Jamison

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Staff

Conner LunsfordBritta RistauEmily SamuelKara AndersonHaley BuskePatrick EastReagan HeathKristen JacksonMolly Malone

Wrenne BartlettSarah CliftonCaroline CooksonKatherine DenneyWill FittsMallory GlasgowCaylyn HarveyZiger HuffnagleLindsey Keller

Mrs. Debbie Dunn Kara AndersonMolly PeachTori SantiTiana Trotz

Editor in Chief Samantha BecciAssociate Editor Faith WhatleyAdvisor Mrs. Cameron Phillips

Ryan Minnigan Molly PeachKatie Napier Christi GrahamMargo KaestnerMadison RennerGracie Knestrick Kara Anderson Tori SantiCarolina MenesesTiana TrotzSamantha BecciWill Reynolds

“Bike” TN Regional Art Exhibit Photo Award WinnerNymph Goddess SculptureChair SketchJuxtaposition and Unusual Puns with PhotoHorse SketchImpressionistic Depth“20th Century Surrealism Fantasy”Scapes StudyChinese Watercolor“A Knot Is Not a Knot”“Girl with Hat at Painting”Stack of Books Sketch

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Back Cover

Art

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Art StaffLiterary Staff

My Organs Are Escaping

My heart is ramming my ribs,Attempting to escape the cageThey’ve created.My lungs are swelling full of air,Resembling pink party balloons,Begging to fly away.My stomach is crawling up my throat,Using my esophagus as a grappling hook.With my tongue fastened into place,It climbs, but slips in each attempt.My brain is striking my skull,With blood pulsing through,In support of this movement.Oh, organs, if I could, I’d open myself and set you all free.

Caroline Cookson

Molly Peach 6

The Man in the Blue Coat

People travel from all over the world to stare into the glass case containging the single portrait of the mysterious woman, Mona Lisa. People ponder her background, her hair, her eyebrows, and most popularly, her smile. However, as curious folk research and contemplate her half smile, half frown, they seem to be looking in the wrong place. The most common guess is that her smile is directed toward the attractive brute Leonardo da Vinci, but this is far off base. Instead of looking toward the main item, the artist, they should be peering behind his drawing stand, to the front window of his apartment.

Letting in an obnoxious amount of light, this window stared straight into the streets of Italy. This busy intersection is what Mona Lisa watched constantly, as she was to remain very still in order to accomplish the perfect portrait. She gazed at the hustle and bustle of workers traveling to and fro, the children running to school, and the array of dog walkers. As she inspected each and every person along those streets, one caught her eye—a man, about her age, standing alone by the bus stop. Everyday for three years, as Mona reported for her portrait, she saw him there. She could tell he was not married, because she never saw a glint of a ring against the sun, and he didn’t even own a dog, for there was never any trace of fur on his ever-present blue coat. She imagined him to be very lonely, much like herself.

Thus, she sat there patiently, and watched for the man in the blue coat. When he wasn’t in sight, she let her mind travel and imagined her life with this stranger. She envisioned being his wife, and growing a small family with him, maybe even owning a dog together. As her mind drifted, a smile formed upon her lips—one beaming with joy and light. But one day, while watching in wait, Mona was overwhelmed with a disappointment she had never dreamt of. The man in the blue coat never came to the bus stop. She thought maybe she had missed him by chance; however, he never did come back. As Mona began to lose hope in her dreams with him, her smile began to be filled with a side of sadness, one that was indescribable. However, her face became peaceful, settled with a happy dream, but a sad ending. da Vinci took note of this face that often was plastered in front of him, and he painted it—perfectly and precisely.

One morning, Mona Lisa didn’t show up for her portrait to be continued. da Vinci thought maybe she overslept; or was sick. But the truth remained that Mona was no longer coming for her portrait. She was no longer coming at all. She was found dead in her sleep, peaceful and rested, with the same smile lying upon her lips. Perhaps she had found the mystery man in the blue coat, but I think she still waits for him. She hangs upon the wall, protected and quiet, following each spectator with her magnificent eyes, waiting for the passing of the man in the blue coat.

Lexie Harvey

7

The springtime air touched the town,Brightening its many faces.They came and went—and the peacefulness kept,Disturbed by one exception.He went through the streets with a mind of his own,Stopping for those deemed fit—Stirring hearts and passionate feelings,Few could ever escape.He learned from none—but left his past,Where it would always seem to stay.His actions were so thoughtless,Never giving—but taking away.So Mr. Loverly went through the streets,Reaching what would be,For him—the end of the beginning.

“Oh, my darling, how do you do?”A kiss on the cheek, then an “I love you.”The girl smiles shyly and giggles a bit,“Oh, Mr. Loverly, what a day it is!”

Moving on through the old, small town,Dirt splashing his fancy new suit to the trim.He walks in the door to where the young woman sat,To give her a kiss and an “I love you.”She stares in his eyes and kisses right back,“Oh, Mr. Loverly, my heart belongs to you!”

Strutting through the streets carrying his pride,The dirt splashing his suit to the knees.Sitting next to the long-married woman,He pulls her close to his side.Taking her hand, his subtle whisper fills the air,Another “I love you.”Warmth fills her being with overwhelming feelings,“Oh, Mr. Loverly, thank you for being you.”

Outside once more,Water splashed with his every step.The rain fell cold against his skin,Everlasting chills crawled over him.He searched for hiding from his own damnation,As mud covered his suit to the knees.His sins rained upon him—for he could not see,His fate would surely be.At point-blank range—certainly no escape,Even the rain refused to cover its sound.He fell slowly back as he breathed his last,Poisoned love reaching its last victim.The mud covered his suit as a whole,Her smile sly on her face.She stared into those blank eyes,Reflecting her own hate.Dropping the murderer at his side,She knelt down at his face.His skin cool to her lips,She gave him one last kiss.“Mr. Loverly, I had once loved you,Oh, Mr. Loverly, how I loved you.”

Kara Anderson

Mr. Loverly

8

I AM

a rambler, a wanderer, a thief in the night,a loner, a lone wolf, a lonely child,a long trip to nowhere, nothing left worth staying for, no good, up to no good, good can come of nothing, running from something, no idea what though, following the road to the end, where the lonely ones go, the wanderers, the castaways, the ones left behind, the wounded, the left for dead, those looking for sight, helpless to might;

Where these all are, so there AM I.

Faith Whatley

Gravity

The moon fell in love with golden the sun.But already she belonged to the Earth and

He hung greedily on her modest hand.Off of her axis she wanted to run,

But with her meek nature, could it be done?Sun would protect her, and Earth would be banned,

In Sun’s brilliant rays she’d become tanned.Without a fight, freedom would ne’er be won.

She’d had enough of terrestrial ways,But for the Milky Way to rearrange,

From the Earth she would have to disengage.She needed to act instead of just gaze.

As Moon pushed away, Earth pulled her back in,Ever since that day, gravity has been.

Caroline Cookson

9

Broke Bum Blues in E Minor

There’s a bum panting down the streetBouncin’ along hittin’ concrete

The folk, they’re starin’The bum not carin’

Who’s the man with the goodwill wearin’

Tender are his feet from all the walkingSits down and rests, to watch the talkin’

“she took an attitude”“God! she was rude”

Thinking nothing of it, he’s on his wayBouncin’ along, on a beautiful day

Then he stops, startled, the weather’s changedFear in his eyes, his face tear stained

He’s forced to rememberIt’s nearly December

And the snow, it’s a greedy church member

Grasping his caneHe stumbles though wet

In that box he’ll remain

Brian Ker

Katie Napier

10

My Brother

Typical of usTo fight without cause

Unusual it’s notFor him to demonstrate his flaws.

The computer, he never shares,The last piece of bacon never is mine;

Most similar he is to a pack of grizzly bearsWhen he opens that mouth of his.

One day I almost told him so,Ready was I to yell and scream and throw a fit

Until I saw my mother goAnd show me what I missed.

Hidden in a folder it had avoided detectionThis seemingly average bit of paper,

But upon a more assiduous inspectionI discovered the truth.

Quite unexpectedly it read,“My sister is my role model.”

And then I knew I would have wished myself deadIf I had told him all the horrible words I had almost said.

Samantha Becci

11

Heavy Rocks

Undeserving ofThe range of understandingYou prepare your worn and

Tattered self to give.You stretch your reach

To include the breach ofContract on your fingertips,

A momentary lapse ofTemporary sanity sends

Echoing profanity spillingOver gates to blast the

Vast majority.Unable to rewind

The continuum of timeYou detach yourselfAnd go about your

Undeveloped crime; to die.But I thought you’d want to live

And continually giveAll you did?

For you can neverShake the past

It always comes apart at last.

Carolina Meneses

The Narcissist

As I passed through a hall the other day,I saw a mirror hung upon the wall.I stopped to study my enchanting face—Perfection there; Adam before the fall.My eyes—so full of wisdom and, their shade,as rich as waste that helps a garden growthey sat, two orbs, themselves of highest grade,their worth above the eyes of men below.And then, a crystal tear ran down my cheek.I knew no friend or flame was there beside,To see, admire, observe—that is my grief.I wept from lack of compliments and pride.For woe goes to the fools who could not see,Just then, true grace and exquisite beauty.

Katherine Denney

Christi Graham

12

Writer’s Block

Blankness:What purpose have you

But to mock me?What joy it does give you

To see me fail.But just as I’m about to walk away—

I find I overcame you yet again.

Samantha Becci

Margo Kaestner

13

The Poet’s Wife

The night and I are blissfully alone.In heat and earth I moved the dirt for rent,

My soul and time forever poorly spent.But now I shine upon my starry throne.

And dismal day my heart tries to atoneBy doing that for which it knows it’s meant:To feel, to write, now free from simple men!

While stark, dark air, blows poems as if cologne.

But now walks love, in body, to the sceneWhose eyes flash bright before the flames of hell.

And you say, “Night? Oh, how I know her well!Join us now both, with kisses so serene,

For night holds poets, and lovers as well, Rest, dear, in eyes of understanding green.”

Ziger Huffnagle

Nothing

Nothing. Absolutely NothingSomething needs to be doneGo ahead; Get going!Or nothing will be won

What is gained by inaction? NothingWhat is perfect in this world? NothingWhat can stop us from progressing? NothingWhat prevents us from taking flight? Nothing!

So why don’t we try harder?What do we see in our way?Why is it that we don’t fly higher?The answer: It’s the way we want to spend our day

Doing absolutely nothing.

Reagan Heath

14

Rebellion

Wandered about through the streets in the falling light.Along the path he trudged, shoulder rounded by too much and too hard labor.

A sharp voice slashed at him, began to scold.A child wept bitterly.

“You keep your mouth shut!”There were tears in his eyes; he could not stand it.

A spirit of protest awoke in him, something equally unexpected and terrifying.The whole world seemed to have become alive.

He wanted to do something he had never done before.Raving and swearing, he shouted a protest against his life, against all life, against

everything that makes life ugly.

With secret conviction that he knew what he was doing,He fairly screamed with delight.

He felt like laughing at himself and all the world,Waking the people in the houses with his wild cries.

“There can’t anyone break me!”

They admired his foolish courage.Maddened by incessant slashing at them,

They had become all alive to each other.

He began to run.Although his breath came in gasps he kept running harder and harder.

Once he stumbled and fell down.Darkness began to spread. His breath came in little sobs.

He could not have told what he thought or what he wanted.He rushed straight ahead to certain death.

Most boys have seasons of wishing they could die gloriously.

Then as he ran he remembered his children,A promise made.

He forgot his foolish courage, lost his nerve.

Then came silence.

He wanted to shout or scream,But for his life he couldn’t say what he knew he should say.

His fancy disappeared in the dusk that lay over the road.“It’s just as well,” he said softly,

And then his form also disappeared into the darkness of the fields.

A found poem from Sherwood Anderson’s “The Untold Lie”

Madison Renner15

Sign Your Name on the X

There is something of which you own.I want it, and you are prone.You’ve turned God away from your life. Without me you will get the scythe.You give yourself to me, Fear will no longer be.Courage will stand within your heartAnd you and love can now not part.These are not lies my friend to beWith me you’ll write your destiny.My kingdom will now become yours.You will be safe on my black shores.Viscous blood will flow on you.Feckless spirits will hold you true.Verdant pastures will sure not be,But utopian values are what you’ll see. What do you think, my fellow friend?I have this document, shall I send? ‘Tis like a deal we shall make now.This paper is your soul, you’ll vowTo me right now for all to see;No turning back for eternity. Take the pen, your life now inMy hands so starved for your sin.Hurry now before we’re caught;Don’t want God to be distraught.Sign here right now. You are now done.That’s one more now of which I’ve won! Thank you my idiot, you shall regretDamned to the depths of Hell you’re set.

Niko Amitrano

16

Madison Renner

17

Like the Rain

She “It’s But walked not she quickly absolutely from healthy would the to not building, cry. keeping stifle She everything your would bottled emotions,” not. up. herOr mother at would the say. very least, She she made would it not let to like them her the see car, rain her streaming tears. alone down her and windshield. let like the the tears like rain f the a like rain l the l rain like streaming the down rain her streaming like windshield. down the her rain windshield.

Caylyn Harvey

18

The Confessions of a Villain

(To audience) I must admit,I did not foresee my fate arriving at death’s door.And now, I do confessThat I do not feel remorse.Nobles beg for the favor of their Queen, And sinners pathetically beseech God’s mercy.But I will do no such pleading. A rotten child does ask forgiveness to a forgiving parent,And commoners without coin seek alms.But I will do no such pleading.Orphans beg for love, And villains may petition for their lives. But I will do no such pleading. Wherefore do you want my words of regret?I shan’t bestow them upon you.My purposes are justified,And my revenge is complete. My only remorse is that of my early demise.Now, I find myself incapable of ensnaring And reeking havoc on all. (Iago dies)

Amanda East

Finding Peace

I hold my ears and wish I was alone— For much of it the fault is theirs to see, And yet, for this, the fault transfers to me. The guilt and shame and anger make me groan; I fear the person into whom I’ve grown. The sheer amount of noise! It cannot be— I wonder why our country must be free. I need a bit of space to call my own.

My quiet room helps me escape my plight. When all is lost and sadness reigns, it seems My heart finds solace hiding here, in dreams. Its tattered rugs are perfect in my sight. In there, the darkest hour of the night Has not a chance to tear apart my seams.

Samantha Becci

19

Gracie Knestrick

20

That Awkward Moment

The gust of air, the gates are openAn overwhelming battle at first sightWhat to do?

A dark green mass bulging out the crackThe ivory structures tainted, infestedWhat to do?

Eyes paralyzed at the frightening sightThe abandonment of all other operationsWhat to do?

Cheeks burning, engulfed by panicThe first burst of moistureNow there’s no escape.

Unable to suppress any longerA raging force that cannot be containedHere it goes.

My gates unlatched with nervous hesitation“Dude, you have something in your teeth.”Finally. Liberation.

Britta Ristau

Jealous Planets

Jupiter shines the brightest tonightThrough the clouds and planesHis light surpasses all the stars

And the moon that wanesBut I heard Mars was mad

Jupiter doesn’t deserve to winHe’s a pompous little fellow

With the toughest reddish skinSo as the night progresses

I see Mars get brightI never thought it’d happen—

The jealous planets fight

Lexie Harvey

21

Take Me

I’ve sought the wrong things.I should have sought You.

I’ve fought for the wrong things.I should have fought for You.

I’ve run to the wrong things.I should have run to You.

I’ve clung to the wrong things.Now I’m clinging to You.

Take Me.

Kingsley East

Reputation’s Lament

For shame! These violent, untrusting times,When man’s best confidant, yet worst adversary, contrives

For debasement of his own, and dear, confederate with lies.In honesty, one must doubt honestly the most “honest” man’s design,

And he who’s best reputed, that soul’s deceit shall find.Lament! all, for duplicity’s bold pretense,

When man’s apparent integrity does his own ally dispenseFrom the “burden” of existence, what ultimate expense.

Reputation? Public stature? Both but wastes, reduced to noneWhen deception runs on, rampant, disregarding all but one;

The one whose gross device does, ‘cept himself, none consecrate,A rude, discourteous villain whose own interest others’ negate.

Oh, rebuke myself, for hate, that this villain I let swayMy own ignorant exploits in this detestably vile way.

I’ve failed my jealous superior, by my liability he’s led astray,While the venal, hateful villain, manages to all of us betray.

Oh! That men should be what they seem!That reputation should expose him with intentions most obscene!

But woe, for under my own watchful gaze, my blind eyes ceasing to perceiveThe reputed “honest” villain does these lives manage to reave.

Madison Renner

22

The Memory Catcher

Amidst the cast of Night’s lingering shadow

There is a light that shines in a high place.

A familiar object presents itself

As I gaze upon the shelf:

An innocent glass vase,

Tied with ribbon and bow,

Sitting silently in its place.

Though seemingly vacant,

Its secrets have yet to unfold

A story of sincere invitation to be told.

A reach of interest is drawn by the sight,

And my memory travels back about a year’s time.

Then down from its resting place it soon takes flight.

Into its deepest basin my vision descends into obscurity

And settles upon the teary array of mere residue and stains.

Once filled with a bouquet of the season’s perennial beauty,

Now all to be found within is but a singular pedal’s remains.

Although all of what dwells inside is from an hour now passed,

The subtle walls of its chamber encompass a timeless mystery.

But as for the time that endures of the morning star’s retreat,

I shall bestow the crystal enchantment upon a nightly stand,

Where such immortal memories are yet to find their place

As I wake to find my memory catcher full once again.

Kristen Jackson

23

Saving Grace

Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a choiceAbout where I’m going, and that’s when I freeze

Sometimes this world just feels so overwhelmingWith a lack of compelling, and that’s when I freeze

Doubting, is a funny thingA hazy dream

That holds me downBut running won’t fix anything

So I’ll just have to stand my groundI’ll just have to stand my ground

So give a little, give it backTake a little, cherish that

Fall into a warm embrace Don’t let go of your saving graceDon’t let go of your saving grace

Haley Buske

Kara Anderson

24

Change

The once thin and frail rootsNow large and gnarledGrip the ground fiercelyStrengthening as time passes mercilessly.

The leaves,Flutter downCovering the groundWith their bodies of orange.

The tree house built by the childOnce appeared a castleNow looks shabby and rottenSlips from the grip of branches.

The oak groans mournfully,Roots violently ripped upA storm unlike any other,Reduces the mighty oak to slivers.

The skyline strokedWith bright, bold colors,Under the oak shards,A speck of green peeked through.

Sarah Clifton

Slack

Colonel is staring.Are these not considered slacks?

Can’t you cut me some?

Lindsey Keller

25

The Night of Thanksgiving

‘Twas the night of Thanksgiving, and all through the street,A stampede is formed by scurrying feet.

One woman, excited, waits for this time,By sitting alone and refusing to dine.She camps out of place for nearly a week,Searching for sales and separate from heat.She skips the turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauceTo simply find items at much lower costs.Her hair is a mess, lacking a showerHer eyes are droopy, her attitude sour.Like a robot she paces in front of the doorAnxiously awaiting the opening of a store.Five hours before the predetermined date,She stands first in line, setting the pace.With her face pressed up against the thick glass,She nervously clinches her wadded up cash.

Finally the moment arrives!She grabs a cart and races insideSnatching movies, iPods, and discounted toysCompletely ignoring all other loud noise.She pushes unfortunate shoppers asideAnd desperately races toward the empty line.Her cart is filled with unneeded stuff,And reaches the check-out with one loud “Huff!”“Congratulations!” a wide-eyed cashier proclaims,“You made it through, and how quickly you came!You are first in line, so you win a great prize:A flat screen TV with a new movie inside.To acquire this exceptional offerYou only pay a mere eight hundred dollars.”

Steaming with rage and bursting with hate,The gullible lady stomps her foot and yells, “Great!I waited around for seven days straightOnly to discover this inexcusable mistake!The commercial told me the TV is free,And you’re sitting there laughing with unmistakable glee!”She screams at him saying, “I refuse to pay more!”And madly snatches her things and stomps out the door.As the angry buyer disappears out of sight,The man says, “Happy Thanksgiving to all and to all a good night!”

Becky Johnson 26

Candle

Just a candle in the night,Without trying, burning bright,

Alone but for your wick and stand,No walls to guard your fragile flame.

Some would call you vulnerableThere, searching shadows to expel.But you’re too strong to falter, fear

Cannot bring down your light.Your inner light, it seems to me

Is where your weaknesses run free.You let them traipse around your mind

And listen to their blind advice.Are you surprised, that you’re alone?

Could you have, had you only known,Protected your spare candle light

From a raging Spartan breeze?

It seems to me,It seems to me,

That you kept the wrong company.

The cause is lost;My youthful hopes you did exhaust.

Oh candle, you once burned so bright!

Faith Whatley

27

Tori Santi

28

Discernment

Peace is relative, but so is pain Fear is definite but subject to change. Uncertainty is a certain thing, No matter the position the view is the same. Doubt is a shadow that leads to faith Love is forever Forever is today. Remember to forget The words are undefeated What is written down is never completed Meant to be broken, wary of breaking What is the meaning of the definition? The clock is ticking, time stands still Remember the fear, feel the thrill Forever is questionable Love never falters Doubt it unceasingly No thing can overcome Uncertainty or Fear, the two are at Peace, a cursed and blessed fate.

29

Mallory Glasgow

Airplane

It’s a beautiful but teasing sensation.The danger and thrill of it escapes meMost of the time.Blinded by white sunlightA low hum brushing my earsMoving fastThough it feels so slow.I find myself wanting to leapAnd wrap myself in the soft white around meWishing to let the ribbons of air curlAround my insignificant bodyFeel their strength overcome meBut I cannot.One day I will, though.I will burst through the barrierOf my human formAnd be surrounded by the glorious light.I will tumble through the soft white,Feel the strong air control meAnd bend to its will.I will slice the sky myselfTwist and turnRise and fall—Thinking of it makes me smile—Flying free unaidedAwayTo explore that blurred horizon.

Molly Malone

30

Life Is No Snapshot

One click and the moment is caughtWith mom and dad and me

It shows the sun, the rocks, the sky,What do I truly see?

I see the river in the backThe dog tied to a fence

I see the thumb of Uncle Don But there is no suspense

No air of love, no sigh of peaceNo way to tell it’s real

No sense of the arising stormAnd how that made us feel

The picture doesn’t show the hourOr the time of year

It doesn’t show tomorrow’s planOr if Christmas is near

It doesn’t show the whole lifeThe beginning or the end

It only shows one memoryAnd all those that attend

Now while this sounds like it’d be niceDon’t dwell just on this spot

For those that hover on one sceneMay miss the bigger shot

It’s taken by the CameramanFilled with many years

He sees the start; He sees the endAnd all of the poured tears

He sees the joy, the hope, the loveAnd watches with content

He revels in the peace He’s madeAnd the message that He’s sent

So though I love my photographsThey’re all I need, I thought

Now I know with all my heartLife is no snapshot

Lexie Harvey

31

Symphony of Myself

In my left hand lies my father’s barely clinging fingers. His skin feels soft like well-broken leather and his arms are pocked with dark blood spots. In my right hand quivers my mother’s hand, a warm, soft mound of flesh. The room is quiet, echoing only the soft and consistent hiss of the respirator and the sharp, infrequent beeps of the heart monitor. The room is dark. A nurse had dimmed the light, perhaps trying to shroud the bleakness of this reality, or perhaps just to hide the ghastly, beaded yellow of my father’s skin. We stand there quietly flanking my father’s bedside and forming a triangle with our hands. At times we close our hot, teary eyes, at times we look down pensively at my unconscious father. We’d been in this room, in more or less this exact state, for almost thirty-six hours. We’d known of this moment for months. But this, we were told, was the end.

He used to drive me to school, even after I had gotten my license, “just for fun.” We would share our plans for the day griping over things we had to do or giving excited descriptions of some event we were looking forward to. We would talk about girls. We would gossip about my mother. He would tell me “old man stories” about medical school or his travels abroad or the days without television. And always there would be music. We would explore Mozart, delight in Tchaikovsky, or swing our arms as we ourselves conducted Beethoven’s Fifth. We would sing with proud fervor in harmony (we had nearly the same singing voice), bellowing out Don Giovanni! We would laugh for the pure excitement of the thing. When the brief trip was done I’d go to school and he’d go about his day. I never thought it odd to kiss my father goodbye. He used to tell me, “It’s not a feminine thing, you know; I used to see those big Mafioso guys do that up in Philadelphia. It’s a European thing.” That was us. We were as cool as “big Mafioso guys.”

It had been almost a year since he had been healthy enough to drive me to school. Now the respirator was turned off. The heart monitor had been silenced to make its dwindling beeps less piercing. Only my father’s soft, infrequent breaths broke the stale silence. And then I began to sing.

The first notes came slow and strong, flowing like some deep river from my chest. Amazing Grace. The sound flooded the room like warm light. My mother looked up, squeezing my hand more tightly. “How sweet—.” My voice caught. My chest shook with grief. My mother squeezed my hand, saying, “You can do it. Keep going, honey.” I breathed deeply and somehow continued. Again the room resonated with my voice alone. “How sweet, the sound.”

At noon, I would walk out of that dark room for the first time in nearly two days to find the sky warm and bright. I could feel that a great shift had occurred in the universe and within myself. Something nearly indescribable happens within a young man when he loses his father. It is so natural and powerful of an effect that no proper metaphor exists. It is like trying to describe light or darkness or love. I felt deaf to all the beauty of the world. And I felt that now I alone could carry on my father’s song.

My father’s passing would send my family into financial turmoil, leading us to move to a more affordable home which was nearly an hour away from school. For a while I made the drive in silence. All the world seemed to hang upon some single, lonesome note. But eventually that note would soften and open again to melody. I began again to hear music in my life.

Now I feel the legato in lovers’ kisses and the swift staccato of drums in the thunder. I dance in the rain of dreary days. And I fill my car rides with all their former glory. Now I am Mozart raising the violins in glorious crescendo with my own arms, now I am Sinatra crooning to some new mysterious romance, now I am my father bellowing a bold rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. Now I am myself, some new and impassioned man who lives not in a quiet desperation but all the grand splendor of the greatest symphony, and I am ready for the next great movement of this masterpiece.

Ziger Huffnagle 32

Carolina Meneses

You've been taught that I'm deadly.Don't be mistaken; I'm the best.

My presence alters stories.To this, history can attest:

Lucifer was the most beautiful of angels,But I told him he was greater.Babel was built to equal God,

And I was the instigator.I told Alexander and Napoleon

That the world was under their law.Achilles and Oedipus made me legendary,

I was famed as their tragic flaw.I create divides. I build up walls.

It's said I come before a fall.In order to succeed, it's me you cannot miss.

I say if you're always right, what's wrong with a dash of hubris?I'm more than just confident.I am haughty and I am snide.

I’m a hard thing to swallow.

I am your pride.

Lindsey Keller

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Bottle of Tears

“There’s a raindrop falling from your eye,”The little girl told me.She told me not to worry,Because it was just set free.She explained how it was trapped,It was scared, and kind of sad.But now that it got out,How much fun it’s had.She said, “This time you’re lucky!You only let one go.Sometimes they keep coming,And that’s bad you know.”She told me that they’re precious,God treasures them all.He keeps a special bottle,To catch them when they fall.

Lexie Harvey

Tiana Trotz 34

Hush, Hush

Can you hear that? It’s saying my name. Whispering to me, like a dead man in his grave. It shouldn’t have a voice —this I know. Yet it sighs, sings, chants, “Pandora, Pandora.” Smooth as glass and the color of bone, There it lays, such beauty marred by such ghastly aberration. From this corner I plead for it to hush, but on it bids, implores, demands me closer. I am prisoner to this box, so terrible and enthralling. I tremble, I moan, I shake, I scream for quiet. Nails bite the tender flesh of my brow. I plead, I beg; but on the beautiful box chants. It pounds and twists my fragile sanity Stretching it, ever so taut, ripping the sides, And my sense drips from it like warm blood. I have no choice. My own will is being stolen. Replaced, instead, by the will of the box. “Look, Pandora. Listen, Pandora.” I must not listen! I have no choice. No choices left for me to choose. What is left for me to do? I cannot relent! Yet I cannot refuse... “Don’t worry, Pandora. Just come, Pandora.” Crawling, crouching, inching forward, I leave trails of red for my tracks, The lid is heavy with gruesome portent, I should stop...but, oh, it murmurs my name so sweetly. With atrocious ease the lid falls. Rancid red mist rushes out in a gale. What have I done? Hideous silence and salty tears. Irrevocable, terrible, abhorrent future. But finally- Quiet.

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Jacqueline Lunsford

Samantha Becci 36

Fading Moments

Happiness and PainBecome all the same,

As they are enveloped in the past.Each moment you may think lasts forever,

It’s really just a blink howeverUntil it’s swallowed into oblivion.

Only you decide how each moment’s spentBut make sure it is of beneficial imprint

On the life you wish to live.

Julia Jamison

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Flight Magazine is printed by McQuiddy Printing Company. The Flight Staff would like to thank Mr. David McQuiddy III ‘78 for his and his staff’s hard work and flawless execution of the design and layout.

The Flight Staff would also like to thank Mrs. Debbie Dunn for her artistic expertise and facilitation to select the art that is featured in this edition; Mrs. Cindy Tripp for her amazing editorial eye and Mrs. Cameron Phillips, sponsor of Flight Magazine, for her literary prowess and unfailing dedication.

Mission Statement

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

to the glory of God.

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The Flight Staff would like to dedicate this year’s issue to Mrs. Gale Payne. Thank you for the long hours and hard work that you selflessly put in to making this magazine a success. We love you! ~Faith Whatley and Samantha Becci

219 Granny White PikeBrentwood, TN 37027 www.brentwoodacademy.com615.373.0611

Will Reynolds