THE ALL

SPRING 2013SAINTS’ REVIEW

short stories, poetry,sermons, dramas, & photography

by the All Saints’ students & faculty

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Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up another issue of The All Saints’ Review. We are enormously excited about the variety in this edition, which includes student work from all three divisions here at All Saints’.

It has been good year, writing-wise, at All Saints’ Episcopal School. Early in 2013, sophomore Kelly Car-roll represented our school admirably when she read an essay at The Dubliners Colloquium held at The Oakridge School. Upper School English Chair Nancy Crossley and English teacher Amy Wright took a dozen students to support Kelly and to listen to readers from area schools. Kelly’s essay focuses on James Joyce’s “Paralysis in ‘A Little Cloud.’” Please check out her fabulous piece in this issue. In it, she writes,

No doubt every writer who has ever taken pen to paper has been besieged by doubts (OK, except for maybe the stunningly prolific Stephen King). After reading Kelly’s work, I wondered if there was a little of Joyce himself in the main character, Little Chandler. It seems, however, that Joyce did not have much difficulty writing and publishing. Instead, he is credited with wisdom such as, “Men’s mistakes are the portals of discovery” and, “The important thing is not what we write, but how we write…the modern writer must be an adventurer above all, willing to take every risk, and be prepared to founder in his effort if need be. In other words we must write dangerously.”

Joyce would certainly applaud the efforts of Mr. Power, who completed a 100 mile trail run then wrote about it for this issue. I would say that this qualifies as being an adventurer and in writing “dangerously.” And I love the notion of writers “being prepared to founder” – it’s not always easy to embrace this notion, but Joyce’s comments certainly make sense in terms of maturing and improving as a writer and as a person.

So, here’s to writing dangerously,

Scott Jarrett Advisor, The All Saints’ Review

Introduction

Fear of the unknown can be paralyzing, as Little Chandler finds out. He owns many books of poetry, and often aspires to writing some verses of his own. However, he cannot bring him-self to write. He fears that he is not good enough to succeed; moreover, he fears the intimacy implicit in writing poetry of his own and publishing it. Any endeavor in writing requires the author to reveal aspects of his or her personality in that work.

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contents

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Special thanks to:Gracie Chambers- Layout and Creative Design

Nathanael King- EditorScott Jarrett- Advisor

Proofreaders: Michael Power, Stephanie Wooten, Ted Arrington

Cover Photo: Mackenzie ShoppaAward winning photo in the Fort Worth Country Day black and white photography show

3Photo by Genevieve Merrill

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The man looked down as the sloshing waves washed up against the side of the old wooden ship. He was a big burly man, well-built and strong, with a fierce expression. The boat smelled foul and the conditions were worse than the land he came from. He rubbed his deep ebony hands together as best as he could in his shackles. Where was he going now? What about his family? Would he ever see his native Africa again? All he knew was that he was trapped on a boat; he was captured by strange men whom he didn’t know, and who spoke a foreign tongue. All he could do was sit back and watch the rocking waves. Days passed on the treacherous journey. Many men and women became sick and died, but not this man. As the strange foreign men oversaw the cargo at the bottom of the ship, they came to the big burly man who was still fit and strong—even after the harsh conditions. One of the foreign men came up to the ebony man and looked him up and down. “You’re not a worker, you’re a fighter!” he said. “Look at him!” he shouted to one of his friends. “We’ll definitely never lose a bet with him! Your name is Hard Ivy.” Hard Ivy, the name sounded foreign and strange in his mouth, but this was his life now. “Land ho!” yelled one of the crew men. They

gathered the Africans up in a line. The burly man now known as Hard Ivy took some shaky steps onto the icy shore; it was a lot colder here than it was in his homeland. The men and women who would be slaves were lined up in a barn and told to stand still. The slave masters came and looked them over with wary eyes. They forced them to open their mouths and examined their teeth. Then the man from the boat pointed to Hard Ivy and said, “This one’s premium stock; he’s a fighter! I’ll sell him for 1,000!” “How about 900?” said one man. “Sold!” said the other. And that was that, he was sold. His new master put him in the back of his wagon and rolled him down a cobblestone street towards the plantation. When he got there he was put in another barn. There were some more foreign men gathered in a circle. “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!” They were chanting. Hard Ivy was pushed into the center and there was another slave; one who was tired and worn out with blood on his jaw. “FIGHT!” they kept chanting. He didn’t want to fight, but they kept poking him and threatening him with their will. “FIGHT OR DIE!” they said. He delivered the first blow, and so it began. The hard life of a fighting slave.

Hard Ivy By Jessica Ivy

Photo by Carolina Martinez

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dinner. But there is no rain.Why is there no rain? Meredith gets dressed, because it’s hardly socially acceptable to go out in pajamas. It’s cold outside, so she puts on a jacket. Wrenching open the window, she looks out. It smells like rain. The air is damp and heavy; maybe she missed it.The ground is dry. Having been raised in a bland house by bland people and having a bland life, this is one of the most exciting events in Meredith’s young life. No rain? On a Tuesday? She closes the window and rushes to the television. She switches it on, but remembers she forgot to pay the bill. Cursing under her breath, she reaches for the telephone. It’s not there. She’s lost it. This is not Meredith’s day. She ambles to the refrigerator. Food typically solves most of her problems. As the door opens, a ghastly smell rolls out. Everything in it is months past the expiration date. There is nothing. After catching a whiff of the refrigerator, she isn’t particularly hungry anyways.Having nothing better to do, she carefully wriggles into her pajamas and crawls back into bed. When she wakes up again, it’s seven in the evening. It’s finally raining. Meredith is unaware. It is better that way.Or so they tell themselves. The lack of rain is a temporary glitch in the program. She wasn’t meant to wake up today. It’s maintenance day, and Meredith is supposed to sleep through those. The program is being repaired anyways. No harm, no foul. So they think.

It always rained on Tuesday. There was nothing incredibly remarkable about this fact, simply because that was the way it had always been. Every Tuesday, it rained. People put out their plants, buckets, and small children to see a bit of the storm. The small children didn’t stay for long, of course, but the neighbors generally thought it was a laugh. As far as anyone knew, there had never been a Tuesday during the course of which it hadn’t rained. Tuesday was rain day, and that was that. There was no question. It’s impossible to argue with that fact when fat raindrops roll down your windows, gently tapping to remind you of the day. No one knew precisely why it rained on Tuesdays, just that it did. It did and had and most likely always would. Which begs the question: What makes today any different? When Meredith wakes up, it’s not raining. Nothing unusual, sometimes the storm will take a while to roll in. So she goes back to sleep. Also per the norm.Meredith sleeps quite a bit, being both unemployed and an adult with little to no responsibilities. However, when Meredith wakes again, it still isn’t raining. That can’t be right. She rolls out of bed, only to find herself on the floor. The fall isn’t a long one, but the floor of her apartment is cold tile. She shivers. She needs a rug, but money is tight these days and a blanket does the trick. Until her rabbit decides to wad it into a nest and sleep in it. But that is beside the point. Meredith pulls herself up and shuffles over to the calendar. Tuesday, ordinary Tuesday. The clock. It’s three. Time for breakfast. Or lunch. Or maybe an early

It Always Rained on TuesdayBy Ali Kaitcer

Photo by Gracie Chambers

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music. Old men and women had sat at the bench with their hunched and decaying spines, picking out old melodies that never left their heads. Families called it to celebrate and to mourn. But one moment in its varied history stood out among all the others. The woman stood just inside the double doors, their glass long ago shattered and crumbled into dust. Her arms were tightly crossed over a black pantsuit, fingers gripping her rib cage. A pale face shone in the sunlight trickling into the room through a demolished skylight. Closing herself off to the world, she stared at the piano. Her eyes skated over every nick and chip in the finish that her brain already knew. Yet she could honestly say she’d never touched the thing before in her life. This woman didn’t know how to play piano, but had always desired to learn. It

Keys made of pure ivory, a rarity anymore, toothed the large black creature. The ivory had survived because of its yellowed state, a consequence of the countless fingers that had paraded and slammed the hammers down, creating a glorious sound. Much to the musicians’ dismay, the Middle C for some reason didn’t quite work: it was weaker than the others. They’d be in the middle of a masterpiece and unable to stifle a chuckle or even a sigh at the pathetic little sound. If they looked hard enough, they could just detect the grubby smudge of blood on the key from one man’s bleeding knuckles years before. The instrument had been through quite a lot, that was for sure. Small children had wiped their noses then proceeded to play an awful selection of keys, sounding more like a hundred murdered cats than

The PianoBy Tayler Weathers

Photo by Marshall Neve

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had been denied to her by her upbringing. Still she was here. Why? The question was not uncalled for; it was one she was asking herself at that moment. The answer was simple. The piano called to her. Over the years she had been privy to countless performances here in this very room, when its grandeur had been unmatched. She had stared at the strange accumulation of wood and wire and metal and ivory and felt and God-knows-what-else from her front row seat until her eyelids took the weight off her shoulders and sealed shut. A hand broke free from her rigid position to hover an inch from its polished surface, where a piece of music still lay. It was only a piece, not even a whole page, but she wanted so very much to touch it. To play it. To breathe life into this heartrending carcass. She stopped herself before she could desecrate the monument to the past. A deep breath filled her lungs and she closed her eyes to think better. More clearly. It didn’t work as well as she wanted it to. Finally, the moment was over. The sounds outside made their way through the echoes of the past and exploded in her eardrums. Workers shouted at each other and chuckled and machinery clanked and rumbled. A car stalled, waiting for her. Pulled away by the noise, she left the building, not stepping through but shoving open the metal doors. In their honor. “Take it down,” she declared, lifting her chin. The head of the crew nodded and cleared the area, carting around a large red button that twisted the sharp knife inside her stomach. Despite this grievous pain she got in the expectant car and drove away as the one thing she had always wanted but never had blew skyward to join its creators.

           Photo by Madelaine Brockway

Photo by Tami Clark

Photo by Alli Papa

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It was a cold dark night in Brooklyn; the cool breeze blew past Daniel’s face, nice and easy. But he wasn’t one for nice and easy, his life surely wasn’t. Daniel was barely hanging on. He was heartbroken, at least five times over. Each time he kept telling himself it would work, that he could give his heart away again, give it another go. But, each time his heart had been shattered worse and worse until it had become fine glass powder. Beyond repair, and raking his insides. He rubbed his tan hands together, it was July, and his feet hit the pavement with a steady thumping rhythm. The wind blew the reddish straight brown hair that covered one of his hazel eyes. Even though his feet started to feel numb he kept walking. He didn’t even know where he was going, but then again he never did. He just walked down the streets of Brooklyn like a ghost, a lost soul. He felt like a walking travesty. Other people might be worried, But Daniel wasn’t. What more could anyone do to him? How much more pain could they put him through? Daniel walked through past an alley, hands in his pockets, when he heard a small whimper. He had nothing better to do, why not investigate? He slowly walked down the alley, wary of his surroundings, and stumbled across a silhouette. Her hair was long, black, and glossy, like a raven’s wing. Her skin was ghostly pale; she was not skinny, but fit and about 5 foot tall to his 6 foot 4. But, what most struck Daniel about her were her eyes. A deep dark blue, almost pitch black. She looked up into his eyes, pleading, like she was opening his soul to her in one stare. He felt his heart thrum in his chest, and his knees go weak, but just from a stare? Who was she? He thought. “Please…” she whispered before she passed out. He caught her in his arms and stared. Even though she wasn’t skinny, there was frailness about her,

When the Moon Met the Sun By Jessica Ivy

like she was always seconds away from breaking. Daniel held her dumbfounded. What am I supposed to do? He asked himself. Something in the back of his mind said he had to save her. He had to do something. He picked up the fragile girl, slung her over his back and ran. He felt a sudden surge of strength he never knew he had. He had a single mission and in his mind it was all that mattered, she was all that mattered. Where’s the nearest hospital? He thought. Down 7th about 2 blocks, I can make it, I can make it, I better make it.He rounded the corner and came upon the tall building. Her breath was getting weaker and she was trembling on his back. Gotta hurry. He burst through the hospital doors, met with surprised stares. Who expected to see a seventeen year in a hoodie bursting through the doors with a girl on his back? “Help her!” he practically shouted. “She passed out in an alley, she’s having trouble breathing, “Help, please.” They quickly got her on a stretcher and wheeled her into the back. “You can leave now young man,” said one of the nurses. “What you did was more than heroic, but you don’t have to stay.” Part of him wanted to leave; girls were nothing but trouble, caring was nothing but trouble, feeling again would only bring him more pain. But a part of him felt some connection to her. He didn’t know what, but something. NO, part of him shouted. You’ll just get broken again, hurt again.But for some reason he uttered the words “No, I’ll stay”. Why did I do that? He thought. Why did I set myself up for this again? But now there was nothing left to do but wait, wait for the girl with deep blue eyes.

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You lean your head backwards, closing your eyes. Once you feel warmth upon your face, you open your eyes.

Here you are God, overseer of all. With a puff of breath the winds swirl and spread, creating clouds of storms. Half of the island Illuma was destroyed in the tsunami that spread down the Gamma Ocean. It was beautiful.Lightly you landed upon the mossy ground, fingers tracing patterns into the flora. In the future scientists would research those patterns and try to comprehend why they formed that way. You were just fond of the patterns.

Now running past you was a species indigenous to the island. It had long hind legs with short fur and wide ears. The eyes were blind after a genetic mutation occurred during Cheruba period. They were a fond species of yours so you decided to kill off their predator. Now they were populating and spreading throughout the island fast. Soon they would start to starve and die off, and then the best would survive and breed.

Pointing a finger at a particular one with sharper claws than average, you marked the sire. That would be the one to start the new adaptation. Growing bored, you walked to the beach and headed down it. The sea was calming down, with several injured bodies scattered throughout the floor. What a pity, it would seem that the last few members of the Echole species were killed. You bent down on the soft, purple sand and picked up a bone.

There on the top was a tiny organism, newly made.Fascinating. Using your thumbs and pointer fingers,

LifeBy Kelsey Ramsey

the organism was stretched. Now it was thin and big, similar to a serpent but with frills. Sticking your finger into the scales of the creature, now it was poisonous. Good, you could already formulate possible ideas regarding the descendants that would come off of this species.

Oh darn, it was late already. Letting the beast go, you closed your eyes again. 1 second.2 seconds.3 seconds.4 seconds.5 seconds.

They were opened. Regretfully you take the goggles off and set them back into their case. It’s time to leave your chair when a pop-up on the computer alerts you. Smiling, you laugh. You have been informed your ranking has been changed to the third best player in the game. Perfect.

In 1 week your planet would be ready.In 2 weeks you would rise to the top.In 3 weeks you would take control.In 4 weeks the cattle would be dead.In 5 weeks you would be gone.

The power button glowed bright like a red star before fading in an instant.

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Off the coast of South Africa floated a rickety old fishing boat. It was a typical fishing day out on the crystal clear waters of South Africa; but this regular day was about to change for the worse. Dense, salty aromas from the ocean filled the air. Pelicans were torpedoes, diving in the water and successfully coming up with   fish in their beaks.  An ominous, eerie feeling hung in the air. Growing unusually dark, the sky turned grey and the wind slowly started to pick up. Abruptly, a drizzle of rain turned into a biting cold shower. Like a volcano, the

Off the Coast of South AfricaBy Will Shipman

sky appeared as if it were going to erupt at any moment. The sea grew angry; jostling the boat around as if it were ta ragdoll. Winds began to howl like a wolf straying from its pack. It now looked like the stormy sky was about to swallow the earth whole. Lightning pierced the ill-omened sky that appeared to be descending unnervingly close to the boat. The boat tossed crazily upon the turbulent waters.  It had not  yet undergone any harm, however the worst was yet to come.

Photo by Marshall Neve

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The wind raced swiftly across the ground like a ravenous snake seeking its prey, and the timeworn Ferris wheel creaked leisurely in the wind. No green grass covered the barren ground, no soft clouds hung in the dull grey sky, and no life was apparent. An old forsaken ticket stand sat forlornly at the entrance of the fair grounds. It seemed as if it was begging for occupants to enjoy its rides, and howl merrily with delight. No longer did smells of buttery, fresh popcorn, or sizzling hotdogs twirl throughout the once-loved amusement park. Moldy food and long-discarded remnants of sugary treats formed a gooey coating on the maroon brick pathway that wound throughout the park. Sadly, the

Abandoned Amusement ParkBy Bryce Earley

It was a bone-chilling night in the blizzard-stricken city of Fort Worth. Heavy flakes of snow fell to the ground, concealing the ground under its white cloak. The spine-tingling wind made the trees briskly sway from side to side, some snapping under the intense pressure. The only things that sat warm and cozy were the light filled homes. Illumination, killing the still and dark night, streamed from the windows like a car’s bright headlights. Smoke billowed from the chimneys as

The BlizzardBy Kort Keunstler

sounds of enormous, animated crowds flowing into the park like crashing waves have all vanished. Even the spinning teacups have no chuckling children to twirl about inside of them. A sudden gust of wind invades the park and causes the roller coaster to slide down its mighty slope like an Olympic skier, and come to a crash at the bottom. The coaster screams down its wooden tracks, sending an eerie squeal throughout the ghostly park. The sign that reads, “You Must Be 54” to Ride This!” swings east to west on a rusty nail and creaks faintly in the wind. There is definitely no amusement to be found in this park.

people, knowing they could go nowhere, sat with their hot cocoa by the furnace. The ice and snow pounded anything in its path, and when it did, it demolished it. Cars, mailboxes, flowers, and even some windows were damaged in this outrageous storm! It took the town, gave it a beating, and went away. After that one night the storm disappeared and Fort Worth never had a problem like it again.

Photo by Tami Clark Photo by Kasey Grona Photo by Tami Clark

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One day, as Murphy the Canine Wood Nymph was hopping about his backyard kingdom, there arose a strange rustling from the Bushes from Whence Murphy Sickens Himself. Murphy, the curious little wood nymph he was, bounded frivolously, tail tightly curled above his hind-quarters, towards the mysterious rustling noise. All of the sudden, a large, smelly African elephant erupted from the bushes, creating a cacophonous uproar. Murphy the Dashing Shar-pei leaped into action against the enormous intruder, barking loudly and creating a cacophony of his own. Then, the elephant halted its rumbling about, stood up on its two back legs, and began to speak!

Murphy the Beautiful Wood Nymph took a deep breath, and then responded in the normal way any dog would respond to an anthropomorphic elephant: he barked even louder. The Fabulous Murphy, of course, continued barking, strafing to and fro at the elephant who spoke in an English accent, because, as most people know, dogs are not all that good at speaking or understanding English.

Murphy the Conqueror of Rabbits, though, could understand English about as much as he could two paragraphs ago. The Oz-Man, not one to be trifled with, whipped out a strange canister (which, in itself, was strange, for he had no pockets of any kind,

Murphicus Rex: An Exaggerated TaleBy Hudson Cleveland

anywhere) and proceeded to spray Murphy the Loud right in his muzzle with a compressed bottle of ether!

Five hours later, Murphy the Canine Overlord of Small Indigenous Creatures regained consciousness. “Errrrrghhh,” Murphy the Great croaked. Then he noticed that he was speaking and understanding interjections. “What the deuce!” he cried.

Murphy the Now-Anthropomorphic looked about. He seemed to be in some sort of super-villain-like lair, with flashing computers (one showing a 3-D representation of his anatomy) and chemical laboratories set up lackadaisically. Murphy, stunned at his newfound ability to speak and the unfamiliar environment, opened his mouth, when he was suddenly cut off by the Oz-Man, who all of a sudden had changed his accent to Australian.

“One more question,” Murphy said warily in a classy Southerner voice. “Ah, yes, why I brought you here. That was probably your first question. Well, as I told you before, when you had the cranial intelligence of a vehement, rambunctious, sly little puppy, there is a plot being hatched by the lil’ critters that hide in fear from your wrath in the Cleveland Backyard. The leaders of these assaults include: Miss Ladybug and her faction of Spotted Red Commandos, Grass Hoppah and his aerial

(Back story: as a joke, I frequently come up with new, forest-related nicknames for our Shar-pei, Murphy. This story arose after my younger brother, Ty, asked for a bedtime story about an elephant and Murphy. The other characters include my brother (Bennett) and me, though they are short parts. Other bits of information are that Murphy is rather aggressive, and barks at anyone who so much as walks by our house (literally). Now, dive into the satirical land that is my consciousness!) (Extra side note: I am relatively sure that the only words my 7 year old brother, for whom I wrote this, understood were: and my variant usage of the name “Murphy.” Continue onwards, random reader!)

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force, Sergeant Thumper and his squad of Ironclad Bunnies, and, last but not least, Robin Brood and his aerial squadron of Depressed Song Birds. Are you up for this challenge to secure your Throne King Murphy/Murphy looked up in an epic slow-mo fashion and then said in an almost Christian-Bale-Ba

The Oz-Man led Lord Murphicus o’er to a blank stone wall, which slid open revealing a panel of weapons and gadgetry that was not there before. Upon this panel was a dog-flight-suit with a jet pack attached (uses green fuel, patent pending), multiple Gatling guns, lasers, rifles, pistols, sniper rifles, knives, swords, pesticides, traps, and a mysteriously labeled “Miniature Atomic Bomb.” Murphy the Worthy claimed all of these advanced weapons, placing them into a size-distributing vortex-container.

Murphy was instantaneously teleported/time-traveled to that exact moment and Oswald joins him, decked in all camouflage and, for no apparent reason, mascara. The two warriors were armed to the teeth with state of the art weapons that would not be introduced to actual militaries for a few decades, and those two wing-men were ready for an ultimate battle, consisting of multitudes of Kamikaze aerial troops and ironclad ground forces. All was silent as Murphy the Golden Warrior and the Oz-Man both peered into the surrounding landscape. Then, a low hum emitted from all around and they were on them. A battle of EPIC proportions ensued, with dogs shooting lasers, elephants screeching war cries, enemy bodies falling, and guns blazing more than the midday sun. Inside the house, Ty Wilson Cleveland watched as, from his perspective, Murphy chased a rabbit and

tore up his stuffed elephant. Hudson walked by with his headphones firmly placed over his ears. He glanced outside, uttered a grunt meant to be taken as a laugh, and continued walking. Outside, where the actual view were not skewed by glass panels, Magnificent Murphy shot down a plump songbird. The enemies were closing in fast, with too many to take out for just the two anthropomorphic mammalian beasts. The Oz-Man shouted over the loud buzzing, “Hit the bomb!” Murphicus Rex looked down at the mini bomb and hit the button. He and the Elephant dove into the bushes while a nuclear holocaust rained down on the pests of the Yard. Inside the house, Bennett then strutted by the door. Upon taking a look outside, he saw that Murphy the Imperial had torn several holes in the ground. Gasping in the silly manner that the Bennetts of the world gasp, he stormed o’er to his parents to alert them of Murphy’s shenanigans. The Oz-Man clapped Murphy on the back and then gave him a rub behind the ears. “Great job, friend!” he proclaimed, reverting back to his fancy English accent. Suddenly, the colors in the spectrum of Murphy’s vision began to contort, dizzying the fantastical dog and subduing him physically. “Oh no,” Ozzy sighed. “T’would seem your normal brain functions are returning and you are quickly losing your intellect and militant stratagems and oh so much more. Well, until we meet again, comrade!” And then Murphy was back in his Forested Domain. Then, the door opened and the Cleveland’s stormed out as one, eyeing the suspicious pup. But Murphy the Glorious just sat there smiling and wagging his tail. And that is the story of how Murphy the Wood Nymph retains his eudemonic demeanor when he has done something naughty.

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April 6, 1937 Mama says Molly ain’t real. Mama also says that fairies ain’t real, but everybody knows that fairies is real. If fairies ain’t real, then who makes all the pretty things in life? Molly says that pretty things don’t matter if you got friends. Molly’s my friend. She holds the swing. Molly makes the swing not crumble and fall when I’m swinging. Molly don’t like to read. But Molly likes to sing. I like to sing too. Molly is my friend. And Mama says she ain’t real. May 8, 1937 Molly made Mama go away. Molly said that because Mama said she ain’t real, that Mama wasn’t right for the world. You can’t just say people ain’t there when they are. Molly holds the swing. And Mama doesn’t. Mama doesn’t do anything now. Mama lays in a hole in the ground because Mama ain’t a believer. I hope Papa doesn’t start saying Molly is fake. Sue Anne says she can’t see Molly either, but Sue Anne don’t know anything. Sue Anne is only three. I’m five. I know everything. I know that two plus two is four and Sue Anne only knows the Swing Song. “Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down!” Sue Anne sings it all the time, even when she’s not on the swing. Molly

Feet Touch the SkyBy Emily Marcho

doesn’t like that though. Molly doesn’t like a lot. Molly gets mad when I have to go home. Molly still has to hold the swing.June 13, 1937 My feet almost touched the sky today. I love swinging. My Papa works the fields right next to our swing and watches Sue Anne and me playing ring around the rosies. Molly sometimes joins in, but Sue Anne doesn’t like to hold Molly’s hand. Molly never smiles. Molly says that if I can touch the sky with my feet, I can hold the swing too. It would be nice to hold the swing too. We could hold the swing together and watch other people touch the sky. Molly never wears different clothes. I ask her if she wants some of mine, but she tells me my clothes are too small for her. I think she is silly. My clothes would fit her better than they fit myself. Molly has scars on her hands and face. I ask her what they are from. She doesn’t answer. She just holds the swing.July 30, 1937 Molly did some tricks today. She made Sue Anne touch the sky with her feet. Sue Anne could never do that before. Now Sue Anne don’t sing the Swing Song anymore. Now Sue Anne don’t swing at all. Molly

The Cameron Phelan Creative Writing Scholarship, established in the spring of 2007, honors the memory of Cameron Phelan, All Saints’ Class of 1999. Cameron died suddenly in the summer of 2006. Writing and humor were Cameron’s passions and his legacy will bring laughter to others for many years to come. He wrote, “Doing the things you truly love to do takes commitment and consistency and it’s rare that you profit from it…unless you love accounting or something.” This year’s entrants were asked to write a journal of exactly 1000 words in the voice of a person pictured in National Geographic.

Cameron Phelan Award submissions

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says her Mama did tricks too. I wish Mama teached me tricks like Molly’s Mama. But Mama’s in the ground. Molly says that was another one of her tricks. Papa still works in the fields. And Molly still holds the swing.August 22, 1937 It’s almost my birthday. Molly said she would make something special for me. Molly said she could make my feet touch the sky. Papa don’t work the fields anymore. Papa only stays at home. Papa says he don’t feel good. Molly says Papa lies. Lying ain’t good. Everyone says so. So Papa ain’t good then. Molly don’t like not good people. Molly says she likes good people like me. Molly says she can make my feet touch the sky too. September 26, 1937 Sue Anne doesn’t play ring around the rosies with me anymore. She don’t like to be near Molly. Molly says that Sue Anne is too young to understand. But see, I’m six now. I know what two plus two is. I can understand. I picked a flower for Molly today. I tried

to put it in her hair but it just falled out. It went clean through her. I musta missed Molly’s head. Molly says she likes black cats. I want a kitty. I want to touch the sky with my feet. Molly says she can make my feet touch the sky. But she didn’t do it for my birthday. She says I hafta wait. Even if I’m six now.November 18, 1937 I didn’t swing today. Molly got mad. Molly got really mad. Molly made Sue Anne go away. Sue Anne ain’t with Mama though. Sue Anne got burnded. Sue Anne turned black. Like the cat Molly likes. I miss Sue Anne. Now I can only play ring around the rosies with Molly. And Molly is mad because I didn’t swing today. It’s only me and Papa now. Molly says maybe soon I can touch the sky with my feet. But I still have to wait. I don’t like waiting. I looked out the window at the swings. I looked at my swing. It was still. But Molly still held the swings. December 16, 1937 I want a new dress for Christmas. Mama went away, so now I don’t have any new clothes. And Molly still wears the same dress. She needs some clothes too. Maybe Papa could be good instead of bad and buy Molly some clothes. Papa hasn’t been good at all. Molly says Papa lies and sneaks and cheats. Molly says Papa ain’tno good for anything. Molly says I should swing more often. Molly says my feet can almost touch the sky now. Come on feet! Touch the sky! I can’t wait for Christmas. January 12, 1938 Molly says I can touch the sky with my feet now. So I did. And now I hold the swing too. Now I can do magic like Molly and her Mama. Molly said I’m special now. I like being special. I can watch people swing. Molly says her birthday is soon. I never knew Molly had a birthday. She said she was born in 1686. I thought she was silly. Molly always says silly things like that. Molly also says her Mama got burnded like Sue Anne. Molly’s Mama was burnded on a stake though.

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“Oh amazing Father who blesses me with so much, like Nascar and my game box. You, who made the sun, the stars, the sky, the universe, Skittles, Peeps, M&M’s... M&M’s are delicious by the way, but the red ones are so much better...uh, What was I saying? Oh right, um, amazing Father, my favorite god, the only God really, not that you’re not my favorite, I mean, well anyway, please help me pass this test, that I am about to take and might not have studied for. I mean I did study, of course, just not that hard. Well, harder than twitchy over there, but of course not as hard as Miss Know-It-All Rachel in the front row. She always studies too hard. And it just makes her look bad. Like what kind of a person makes straight A’s? A weird person, that’s who. I mean, who does she think she is anyway? “Oh

To My Dearest GodBy Betsy Shelton

I know the answer Mr. Currow. What a silly question. That’s SO easy. Have you finished your quiz yet? I’m SO bored. Oh everyone watch as I twirl my hair every five seconds with my beautiful, graceful, elegant, hot-body hand. Twirly Twirly! I’m too good for you Mr. Mathew. Oh, watch as I put on my lip gloss. Don’t you wish you could kiss me? Tehehe!” I hate her. Oh! Sorry. I forgot I’m not allowed to hate people in prayer no matter how much they ask for it. Except I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to hate Hitler... Please forgive me for that thing I just thought about Rachel. I don’t really hate her. In fact I think she looks very ...well You know. I’ll tell her later she looks great. Honestly! Pinky-promise! Does a pinky-promise count if one of us only has metaphysical fingers? Did I mention I love Your work? The weather

Cameron Phelan Award submissions

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looks great outside! I really like what you did with the whole black storm cloud thing. It’s a great color for You. So anyways, God, I was wondering if you could send down one of those guys in heaven who has a doctorate or PDH in math to come and help me. Or is it a PHA? PMS? No definitely not that! GOP? BS? SOB? ADHD? Just wait, it’ll come to me… Right, so an angel would really be appreciated. You don’t have to go through all the fire and light and stuff. Just a gentle whisper with an answer every now and then will be fine. It’s not cheating really. Don’t worry about that. I know all this stuff, honest! Cross my heart and swear to You I do! Wait, so if everyone swears by You, (that is capital “You”), then who do You swear on? “Yes I will send a Savior to you, young pattawon. I swear by Me I will.” That has to be rough. Especially since you already have to deal with the idiots who wanna win the lottery. I bet You just want to scream,” It’s rigged! Give it up already!” People should really pray for more sensible things, ya’know? Well, of course, You know. You’re omnipotent and stuff. I bet you could even throw answers into my head during this test. That could be totally awesome! How ‘bout we try that for a change from the lame “here’s an angel” thing. Why bother with transportation worries when you could just let the answer appear on my paper? I’ll just set my pencil on my desk and you could make it move. I trust you. I mean, I will always trust you with the really important things in my life and this is pretty important. It could affect my whole life. I might not get into college depending on my average and how little the teacher hates me. Even worse, one more failing grade and I could get kicked out of school. Seriously! How would that make You feel? You could be the sole reason my life gets ruined. Do You really want that guilt on You bringing you down for the rest of Your life, well, that is existence? That’s a really long time if You haven’t figured it out by now. Besides why would You care if I

know math? It’s not like everyone solves equations all day in heaven. They sing. And I personally plan to be one of those “Hey look! I’m flying on a cloud” guys. No one has ever said, “God, I have worked hard so that I will be able to perform logarithms for You in heaven, where with the ever dressing Mary and Saints, I shall praise you forever with my rad math skills”. Okay, maybe Newton said that, but no normal person like me ever has. Normal people like to pray more normal things like, “Please God, please help me to remember that there are 360 degrees in a circle and that to convert degrees to radicals you multiply the bachelor’s degree by apple pie and divided it into fourths. Or at least I think there are only four people. OH NO PLEASE HELP ME AHGH!” Of course, I would never cause you that kind of stress right before I test. I’m a pretty chill guy. All I need is a few answers. So… You still haven’t given me a sign about the whole “helping me out here” thing. Now would be a great time… Wow, You really are the strong and silent type. But You probably get that a lot. So we’re good right?... God?... This is where you answer…Hello?...”

“Darling Heavenly Father, It’s me, Rachel, again. I just wanted to thank you for the rain today and for the opportunity to better myself through school. If you could help me show how well I studied and learned this material I would be very grateful. But more importantly let what I do glorify You. Also if You could get Mathew to stop muttering to himself, I would be able to focus a lot better. Thank you. Amen.”

18Photo by Preston Percival

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After two months of slow recovery, the fatigue and bodily distress have all but run their course and I’m beginning to feel normal again when running. The images from that weekend are more recoverable than ever and chasing them down is almost as fun as the experience itself. The twists of trail, the moan of the pine bending in the breeze, the light fragmented and cut into a million pieces by the forest; all of this and more flood my memory. Like clockwork at six in the morning, packs of runners bolt with the starting gun as they shiver off the frost and spring into action. Yawning creatures salute the slow sun while their movements trace shadows on the forest’s soft dim floor. Here I am, beginning my second attempt at finishing the Rocky Raccoon one hundred mile endurance run on this chilly yet pleasant February morning.

For me, foot races of this length can be more about mental fortitude than physical strength. Sheer human power and quick pace are the dominion of much shorter races, and rightly so. Running all day and night require an extreme patience. Moving above desired pace will undoubtedly make for trouble later in the race. Finishing one hundred miles in less than thirty hours is a lesson in confidence and doubt, of reason over emotion, and an ability to conserve and use energy properly. Learning to continually move and face the fear of the unknown are what draw recreational runners like me to this distance and it’s thrilling to be outside all day doing what you love. The formula is quite simple: survive the distance or crumble in its jaws. Moving past discomfort one can find pleasure in nature and regress into what we once were: wild and keen. We are animals after all, and there is no endurance sport that I know of that illustrates this primitive experience so entirely.

Rocky Raccoon is one of Texas’ oldest and most loved trail races nestled in the sandy and root ridden trails of Sam Houston National Forest. It is a National draw every February and fields almost seven hundred and fifty runners from all over the world. This race was selected to host the 2014 National one hundred mile championships next February which is a very prestigious selection and a real compliment to the growing sport of trail running in Texas. It’s a fast course for more competitive runners and a great first for beginners. I was there in 2011 when the world record for one hundred mile trail racing was set by a young speedster by the name of Ian Sharman who came in at the 12:44 mark. That’s fast folks. As the race director Joe Prusaitis likes to ironically point out: “Rocky Raccoon is built for speed and comfort”. I suppose this could be true compared to many other races in the mountains or at

An Exercise in Confidence and DoubtBy Michael Power,ASES Lower School Faculty Member

Michael (left) and his brother Jacob cross the finish line

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higher elevation but the thought of comfort on any one hundred mile course seems strange. Each runner must run a twenty mile loop five times under thirty hours for an official finish. That is the name of the game. Speedsters who run under the coveted twenty four hour mark get a special award and a heaping amount of pain. Staying positive throughout the day and night is essential for an attempt at a finish. We laughed and jogged along at a slow but steady clip side stepping roots and letting gravity work for us on the downhill. Only forty miles into the race and my positivity was exposing itself in a wide sun-drenched smile. More often than not runners struggle with the psychological aspects of this distance, and keeping a good attitude can be a huge physiological asset. It is expected that it is going to hurt and cause bodily damage. How much attention and energy that these struggles are given make all the difference and all endurance athletes handle it differently. There are typical moments during ultras where feeling good is relatively easy and the message of what’s in store is slow coming. There are many ups and downs both in a physical and mental sense. Runners must weather the highs and lows and trust that if things aren’t going well circumstances are likely to change. Conversely, if things are running smoothly, you can bet it won’t last long. Most runners who are experienced at this distance claim that one hundred mile races don’t really start until mile sixty. That is usually the point where the body has mostly deteriorated and the mind must take over. I understood it on this beautiful Texas afternoon in Huntsville State Park as the miles seemed to float by so seamlessly. However, I knew the night was close. I could feel it rushing on with speed and I faced it with

silly optimism and a lighthearted attitude. Flashing back, I did not make it to the finish line on that one hundred mile attempt in 2011 and it has haunted me since. The night broke me down in so many ways. In addition, six weeks prior to the race I broke my toe playfully chasing my youngest daughter, and obvious sprinter, around the house. I had floundered in the last stages of preparation, but made the attempt regardless. Running the night hours with temperatures in the twenties is difficult enough, but when the food and fluid won’t take, a bout of hypothermia is highly probable. Dealing with the thought of freezing to death in the forest seemed difficult at first and then much smarter later on. Disappointed, I had to throw in the towel after several loops.

On average, I race over four marathons or ultra marathons a year and have for over a decade. Other than burning out in the middle of the night at El Scorcho during the summer of 2008, this was my first time to quit. Not finishing in 2011 became a turning point in my quest for a one hundred mile finish. Failure visits in many forms on the trail, but on that night it came as a slippery ghost. I knew I would be back in 2013 to settle the score and this time I would finish or die trying. There seemed like no alternative. I could not possibly invest another year’s worth of training to go back and get squeezed again in the grasp of the night.

This year’s race would merely produce a sixty seven percent finishing rate which is abnormally low for a race with a non-weather event. Runners would experience lows teetering in the mid forties with a rebounding high of almost seventy five on Saturday. It doesn’t get much better. Trail races don’t get cancelled for lightening or thunderstorms, freezing temperatures or intense heat. It’s all part of the challenge. I have finished races

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in all kinds of extreme conditions and it seems to flip a primal switch in performance often lighting adrenaline that runners can exploit and siphon off as necessary. The running last year in 2012, which I did not attend, greeted runners at the starting line with blast of thunder and torrential downpour. Reports from friends of mine who were there said they were sopped throughout the morning hours. Running wet always seems to bring a special type of torture.

Back on the course evening sets in with the dark purple of the sky melting the green of the pines into black. I am approximately at mile fifty five by dark and my smile has only slightly evaporated. Trees that seemed so friendly earlier in the day now come alive and straighten their backs like sentinels. Remaining upbeat, I welcomed the night with meditative breathing. This would be serious fun I thought as I moved deeper into the tunnel of the night. The numbing pain and steady exhaustion are normal now and without it runners cannot adjust to the fluid realities of what is taking place. Adaptation and adjustment are critical skills in endurance sports. As evening dug deeper into the night conditions were becoming physically tricky, but my mental energies were holding up surprisingly well. I thought about the years I’ve spent preparing for these moments and I concentrated on success. Midnight comes as an intruder, a surprise element that can invigorate or fracture. Over eighteen hours of running at this point made another eight seem like a dream. One hundred lumens of light on the headlamp lit the path in box form. Illumination dances in strange outlines and my struggling vision rapidly encounter the hazards. In daylight, perception and reaction happen simultaneously on the trail illuminated in perfect detail. However,

on the dark side, forms become strange and deceive through distance and shape. Concentration is a priority and one false step or miscalculation could spoil months of preparation.

Every four or five miles there are aid stations which are stocked with about anything you could possibly need or want. Hot soup is golden nourishment and grilled cheese is a booster shot. Pancakes and noodles are quick energy too. Flavor is always amplified and eating voraciously is natural and customary. I eat and drink what I can then travel on. The volunteer network at Rocky Raccoon is awe inspiring. Veteran trail runners cook up delights and tend to the wounded. Stumbling upon an aid station in the middle of the night is a revelation in pleasure and pain and lingering too long can spell trouble. Misery on the trail is a contagion easily caught and hard to avoid without careful attention.

Those last pre-dawn hours are hypnotically difficult to remember. Time seemed suspended within the soft fog. A quick pumping walk was all I could muster in the thick air, but I was moving and that was all that mattered. Feet get wrung and every step is a wave of electricity that consumes the spinal column and all the strings of the body. Often feet don’t exist and movement is a fluid and continuous float. Pressing on with fifteen miles to go, I grip the deepest and darkest part of the night and hold on during the last loop.

The first whistle of wildlife on Sunday morning was revitalizing. I knew the finish line was only a few hours away and my instincts were alive. The resulting wave of warmth flooded my senses as I picked up the pace with renewed strength. I desperately wanted the sunrise to happen instantaneously, but it came as slow as a freight train under heavy load. The whole world opened up one second at a time. My eyes unlocked as the sun returned

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to my side of the world. Witnessing two sunrises on the same run is very humbling. All of these trees, aged so well, will outlive me. The sun will shine and burst for years on end and rise the same way.

As much of an individual sport as this is, the camaraderie among trail runners, the shared experience, and group mentality is very much a democratic practice. We all share the joy and suffering as well as the success and disappointment. Running long distances with seven hundred people on a trail or thirty thousand people on the streets of some premier marathon bring to life a common understanding that transcends normal experience. It reminds us why we are here. Vitality and the simple gift of movement are so basic yet cherished. We are alive because we move and we move because we can.

The finish line seemed so far from three hundred yards. The generator and cow bells were deafening sirens. Those last steps were not as emotionally driven as I had expected. I desperately wanted the feelings I had turned off to save the race to return in great and crushing waves, but they did not. It was a peaceful dream, a strange and quiet end to a wild ride. As I crossed the line in 28:33, Joe handed me my finisher’s buckle as he slapped me on the back and jokingly said “Well it took you long enough”. With my hands on my knees, I responded “but isn’t that the point Joe?” We had a nice laugh and shared the bliss as we made our way to the medical tent. It took me years to gear up for this race and there were many times when I thought it was out of reach. Not finishing in 2011 tore me up, but I learned that looking at difficulty and breakdown with optimism is essential for any accomplishment. When competing in endurance races, one has to be prepared for the possibility that it may not be your day. Coming back to make the attempt

again was a real defining moment for me. So many pieces of preparation and race day readiness must come together for success, but having the will and courage to finish is all that I really needed. t Experiencing the process and then finishing the challenge is immensely satisfying. Realizing that doubt, struggle, and failure can often build the blocks for future confidence and ultimate success is a lesson well learned and I will carry it with me for a long, long time.

"Life is like a metal, placed within the furnace of misfortune. The closer we are put

to the fire, the stronger we become."

-Garrett Carr 12th Grade

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Paralysis in “A Little Cloud”By Kelly Carroll

A man called Little Chandler tells a piece of his story in “A Little Cloud,” written by James Joyce. In this story, Little Chandler dislikes his current position in life as a clerk in the King’s Inns in Dublin, doing simple desk work. Meanwhile, his old friend, Ignatius Gallaher, has elevated himself to an important station in the London Press. Chandler meets with Gallaher in a bar to talk, their first meeting in eight years. Gallaher tells stories of his travels across Europe, weaving tales of wonder and mystique; Chandler, who once aspired to poetry, realizes that he could have been as great as his friend. However, he could never bring himself to compose an original piece to showcase his talent, and lost his opportunity to become great. Fear of the unknown can be paralyzing, as Little Chandler finds out. He owns many books of poetry, and often aspires to writing some verses of his own. However, he cannot bring himself to write. He fears

that he is not good enough to succeed; moreover, he fears the intimacy implicit in writing poetry of his own and publishing it. Any endeavor in writing requires the author to reveal aspects of his or her personality in that work. Little Chandler does not desire to expose his deepest feelings, only for them to be rejected. And yet, even as he fears the idea of writing, he yearns to do so. The meeting with Ignatius Gallaher only brings his old desires to the forefront. Gallaher has used his talent in writing to overcome his rough and tumble adolescence. He has since traveled Europe, meeting all sorts of people and seeing many different cultures. Little Chandler finds himself envious of his friend, wishing that he could be the kind of man Gallaher is. But Little Chandler, unlike his outgoing friend, chose to stay in Dublin instead of venturing outward. He feared the outside world, instead choosing to marry safely, have a child, and live a domestic life. Now, of

Photo by Gracie Chambers

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course, Chandler regrets that decision, and wishes that he had ventured outward. He finds himself bound to his pretty wife and perfect child, chained to the perfect example of domesticity. Little Chandler sees Gallaher traveling the world, and realizes that he could have been just like him, if only he had not feared what the road might have brought. As a spouse, Little Chandler feared leaving his comfort zone, Dublin. He married safely to a pretty lady and soon brought a child into their home. After his meeting with Gallaher, he begins to resent this domesticity. He wishes to see more of the world, which he cannot do if he is tied to a wife and child. Now, in the twenty-first century, this resentment of a marriage is less common. In this decade, people have begun to marry later and later, waiting for just the right person to appear. Divorces are slightly less common, since marriages are normally founded on longer relationships. Sometimes, a couple dates for a year or two before even becoming engaged; after they announce the engagement, the wedding is sometimes stalled for a few more months. While some college sweethearts do rush into marriage head-first, most couples wait to commit totally until they are sure that they are compatible. People fear leaving their comfort zones, both as spouses and as writers. I myself dislike leaving the “safe zone” that I have created for my writing style. When I am writing creatively, I rarely try to write a different genre than the ones that I have written before; I stick to the ones that I know best and feel comfortable writing. When I do deviate from these set genres, I feel as if the piece will not be received well. If it is well-received, then I fear that it is not as good as something else that I could have written in a different genre. If it is rejected, I feel as if I have been personally insulted, since I poured my heart into writing something other than what I would normally attempt. Also, paradoxically, I fear

success. I assume that, if I succeed, I will be forced to write something even better than what first brought me recognition. This assumption raises the doubt that I might not be able to write a piece better than the first. If that happened, I would be consigned to the ranks of the one-hit wonders, fading away slowly from the minds of the public. Finally, I fear that all of my hard work will turn out for naught, and that I won’t succeed at all. I worry that I will be shot down before I can leave the runway. I dread hearing that the stories, into which I poured months of hard work and tears, are in fact, according to my reader, a waste of paper and ink. I do not want to be the author that the reader remembers, only because the story was the worst he or she had ever attempted to read. These fears cause me to stick closely to the boundaries of my comfort zone, rarely venturing outside its narrow bounds. Comfort zones can be a trap just as much as, or more than, a marriage. People find themselves trapped in their own little self-made boxes, unable to escape. They wish for a different life, but feel as if they cannot attempt to achieve it. Little Chandler felt the same way: he could not write poetry, afraid of failing, but he hated his domestic life. The proverbial grass is always greener on the other side. People wish to achieve great things and become famous. However, after they have done so, they wish for their old, calm life again. They can never move forward, dreading what could happen to them if they fail. But they can also never stay as they are, always aspiring to greater things.

25Photo by Allison Cribbs

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Through our study and our servicewe try to find our purpose.I am but one not two, so what can I do… Volunteer – campaign.So many times it seems in vain.We are only teachers and they our studentsWith much more knowledge on how to be prudent;Nonetheless, we all deeply care;So can’t we learn to help those who struggle…with what they bear?Learn….Serve….ChangeThis motto for less pain,Students ask where we start, So we the teachers take on the part.We begin to seed the land With students’ helping hands.An experience is a must; We nurture a new trust. And one aspect that is soon to be,Will develop true empathy.So we leave our homes, our beds, and our bathsTo sleep outside off the beaten path.The night comes fast as the sun slips away“Who knows,” some say, “this is not too hard to play.”But as the winds and cold begin to chill These thoughts not long to leave… those thoughts of “thrill”.Now, on this late, late night in February Each one of us misses our Sanctuary.The cheers die down, and the smiles turn to frowns,And we lose our heat to the hard cooling ground.“Is it morning yet”, the desire grows,But sadly it’s not;Only sorrow we know.I can’t believe this is how I feelAs the simulation has finally become real.

Project EmpathyBy Mae Maly and Joe Morris,ASES Middle School faculty members

Photo by Marshall Neve

Photo by Genevieve Hodges

Photo by Tami Clark

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When the moon fellThe sun roseLight and warm with unending delight.When the sun lay lowas a soldier in the snowthe moon blooms overheadas if to shine a pathway for a nighttime tread.It radiates a soft glow through the Milky WayFlooding our side of earth.All is still and silent For it is night,While the moon shines above spreading light.

A Moon Time Rhyme By Hope Gutierrez

I need something in my lifeTo get me throughAll my longing and strife. All the things I never knew Will haunt me down and crush me, And all the lies will turn out true.Now I am blind, I cannot seeI need something to light the wayFrom darkness and disparity. Can beautiful things not stay?

InspirationBy Emily Marcho

Photo by Kasey Grona

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Lead me in, to a false good,it seems tasteful compared to what’s around me.I follow you in, breathe in the divine temptress,this is a moment frozen in eternity.The principle is sound;perfection, forever, is all that’s found.I want to stay, feel the need to stay,and I do.Soon, it all deteriorates around me.Apparently, nothing can withstand eternity,not even perfection.I could leave now,but I have the inner deception that it all gets better from here on out.But no.It gets worse.The beguiling Siren began well enough,but now I can see its jaws prepared to consume me.I have become detached from reality,I have grown too accustomed to sweet (overripe) eternity,The only thing left is escape,but the only escape is a void-eternity.I choose it, preferring insanity over gore,but I quickly forget all that I looked for.Cannot eat, cannot sleep, cannot be,I can only think.And that’s the worst part,because that is true eternity;not forever, which is a ridiculous temporal concept,but the one where you are alone, with literally nothing to accept.Nothing is infinite though,and that lock’ll spit you back out from its keyhole.I have arrived on the other side, warped of mind.

EternityBy Hudson Cleveland

I got addicted to eternity, addicted to the perfect,Then I overdosed on reality, overdosed on the physical intoxication.Time has a way of wanting its residents back, and my body dissolves swiftly.Still trapped in eternity,white walls, wash white,physical sense is gone, all that’s left is mental spite.Eternity just eats you up,it wants you,it wants more finite things to hold in its infinite collection(we’re just animated knickknacks for the impossible)and when it decides its done, it’ll spit you out,corroded and insane, physically dying, already mentally dead(again and again)But even eternity has to end,and when it does, everything that wound up inside it(that metaphysical beast, bloated and rotting on the inner,a cancerous grin on the outer)is annihilated by what they once perceived as real.

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“Is the world really like that?”You ask me.Oh, child.Where have you been?The world misses you.They miss your golden laugh,Rising in the summer airMore surely than a sprinkler.They miss your little handsTucked carefully in theirs,That smile you give when the sky darkens,And a storm is coming.I never knew why the thunder didn’t scare you.It certainly scared me.But here we are, child,Locked away like princesses in a tower,And I’m powerless to free you.

The World Misses YouBy Tayler Weathers

Photo by Tami Clark

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Nothing really mattered much anymore.Life was just aFairytaleWaiting for its happy ending that wouldNeverCome.He desperately waitedAlways in agonyFor the relief that wouldTake him away from his taintedWorld.He would sit in his cornerReading things that didn’t make senseListening to the stars talk about theirShine.He knew it never mattered, nor would it ever matterIt was just something to keep him half alive.His music left him vulnerable to anyAttack on self-esteem orEmotion.He felt he had nothing to hideBut really he had everything to run away from.So his fairytale lingered on,Making the days turn intoNights.Sometimes it seemedUnendurable,The fate he had been dealtBut it always turned out that in the end,Nothing really mattered.

Fairytales By Emily Marcho

I see the emblem, the one made of green and blue,the one that looks like a colorfully molded clay tattoo.They are part of that rugged sphere,Elemental and basic, but vigorous and feared.I see the dance, made of rhythmic lights,the ones that look like bioluminescent sprites.They dance and dance across that rugged sphere,Some fly about, others disappear. I see the worms, made of smooth gray,the ones that look like thin criss-crossed veins.They stretch and stretch around the archaic sphere,Permanently assembled, to the skin they are adhered.That sphere, it’s alive,That sphere, it’s happy.I see the mist, made of darkened exhaust,the one that looks like fog and poison fought each other and both lost.They cover up the euphoria of the sphere,Now the emotional state is unclear.Through the smog I see the fire,the kind that smells like burning liquid death.It explodes, there it all goes, that handsome old sphere.I’m not sure, but I think as the thing crumbled away,I saw a single metaphysical tear.

The SphereBy Hudson Cleveland

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Time is relative to all things,The bee lives only as long as the honey,The marriage only as long as the rings,The success as long as the money.Time is relative to all being,The flower lives only as long as its season,The mind only as long as it’s thinking,The thoughts as long as its reason.Time is relative to all man,Birth as long as there’s death,Love as long as it’s cherished,Faith as long as there’s belief.

Thoughts On LifeBy Emily Marcho

“Friends forever” we said But we created a riftOne only mendedOn the last day I lived

The wind gusted pastCarrying bullets of rainBut the curtains of waterCould not ease my pain

I tried to escapeWith nowhere to runMy body failed slowlyMy heart weighed a ton

But I couldn’t leave yetI had something to doI gathered my strengthThinking only of you

I walked to your houseDeath dogging my stepAn open door: “I love you.”And I took my last breath.

Last DayBy Kelly Carroll

Photos by Marshall Neve

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In their faces I see othersMany othersGhosts who have haunted both my dreams and my nightmaresSo I have already determined who this child will beIs that fair?I don’t think soI don’t like people judging meBut there it isThe truthThe echoes of the past are impossible to forgetThe ripple effect stronger than anyone thoughtSo maybe we should stop and waitHold still, evenBecause I don’t want perceived faults on my conscienceThere’s enough living there alreadyTo this end I’ll keep my gauntlet onAnd never ever ever runI’ll stand my ground in silenceKeeping my waves calmI’ll take you for your wordAnd what you’ve doneNot what they say you’ve doneI’ll make sure I see you as youNot as someone I used to knowNot an echo of the pastBut I have to ask:Will you do the same for me?

Echoes of the Past By Tayler Weathers

Better catch up, ‘fore you run out of luck,Better catch up,Better catch up, ‘fore you run out of luck,Better catch up.Who are you, do I know?All I’ve seen is a fleeting umber(nothing but a shadow)a flash of smile, before the world tears apart(just a harmless organism before the stab at the heart)Placate your being and erode mine,I can’t see you, I just assume you asinine.You’re nothing to everything,a pseudo-reality, stand-in silhouette.You’re losing your place in the fray,you’ve always been there, but so easy to forget.(Better catch up)A superficial hack at orthodox,pulling away and running while everyone else just walks.Who are you, do you know?Do you know me, or am I just a show?Who am I, do I know why?No one does, I just live to survive.Better catch up(you’re running out of luck)Better catch up(you’re running out of luck)Better catch up,too late,you’re done.

Catch UpBy Hudson Cleveland

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The first thing he didWhen he got home from warWas snatch up his violin andCry over the torturous woodBecause his loss only multipliedWith every snowballing day.He hadn’t lost just his armHe’d lost his fingersHis gripHalf of his gestures

By Tayler Weathers

Dark, young eyesDepth in her vision,Her eyes are older than Her heart

She has thirteen years of age,A child.Yet the maturity ofA woman

She yearns to beA child once more.To play with dolls and to play outHer dream.

She cradles her baby, notA doll, notA brother,Her son, her baby.

At last she is granted a break.A man offers to hold her child so thatWith the school children,She may play

Like many dreams,Awaking is inevitable.The game ends,And she must return to Reality

Childish ThingsBy Emily Cook

The One Armed ViolinistHis musicHis everlasting wordsAll gone.Because of one stupid mistakeThe losses only multipliedWith every rising sunAnd setting moonFor the one armed violinistWho’d once had a pairBut now just had one.

 

Photo by Gracie Chambers

Photo by Cate Smith

34 Photo by Marshall Neve

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This has always been an interesting passage to me, and if I’m being honest, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to preach about when I saw this scripture for today. But the way God works continues to amaze me because the sermon he gave me for this scripture is not only speaking to me as I try to decide what I’m doing and where I’m going after All Saints, but it speaks to all of you who are in a situation not too different from mine, and to those who are well out of high school. So this woman by the name of Mary takes some oil and pours it on the feet of Jesus and begins to wash His feet with her hair. Not with a towel, not with some ancient sponge, not with even with her hands, but with her hair. I don’t think I’m alone when I say I start to question the mental stability of someone who

Sermon on John 12:1-8By Christian Broussard

Photo by Marshall Neve

John 12:1-812 Six days before the Passover, Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus lived, whom Jesus had raised from the

dead. 2 Here a dinner was given in Jesus’ honor. Martha served, while Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with him. 3 Then Mary took about a pint[a] of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’

feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.4 But one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, who was later to betray him, objected, 5 “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year’s wages.[b]”6 He did not say this because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief; as keeper of the money bag, he used to help himself to what was put into it.

7 “Leave her alone,” Jesus replied. “It was intended that she should save this perfume for the day of my burial. 8 You will always have the poor among you,[c] but you will not always have me.”

washes feet with hair. In the one and three quarter decades I have been alive, I have only known of one feet washing with hair and oil incident, and it’s the one we’re talking about. At first, I shrugged it off as some weird ritual from way back when, but nope, it was as weird then as it is now. But the weirdness doesn’t stop there. The oil she is washing Jesus’ feet with was worth 300 denarii. Now that’s a year’s wages, and a lot of money. And Judas says in verse 5, “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor?” I think he brings a valid point. Could the oil have been put to better use than anointing the feet of Jesus? Is there a possibility that it would have done more good as money in the hands of the poor? That seems like a weird thing to say, and it seems like it’s almost a taboo, but I think it’s

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a question worth being asked. But there’s one more piece to this story. Verse 6 says, “He did not say this because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief; as keeper of the money bag, he used to help himself to what was put into it.” So Judas wasn’t being a philanthropist, and he didn’t have any interest in being a blessing to any homeless person at this point in time; he was trying to get some money in his pocket. For all who were forced to, and the few that enjoyed, reading the Canterbury Tales, you are familiar of the Nun’s Priest’s Tale. This male chicken (I had to paraphrase given the wide range of maturity in this room) by the name of Chanticleer is the best cockadoodler in life, and a fox tells him to stretch his neck out as far possible to make his singing match and even surpass that of his father’s. And like a fool, he does it and gets snatched up by the fox, and on his way to being a cockadoodler over pasta with a nice sauce. But as the fox is running, some people with pitchforks and other stuff chase him, and Chanticleer tells the fox talk some game to the pitiful humans, and like a fool he does and loses his melodic meal. I remember talking about the difference between compliments and flattery; about the deceitful nature and ulterior motives of flattery whereas compliments are simply sincere. I don’t think this situation is that different. Judas wanted to sell the oil for the year’s wages for himself, but dressed it up and made it sound pretty. But Jesus responded to Judas’s question saying,  “Leave her alone. It was intended that she should save this perfume for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.” Mary saw an opportunity to bless her Lord with what was more than likely the most valuable thing in her possession, and was defended by her Lord when her actions were called into question. She didn’t

wait until she felt like the moment was right, and she wasn’t concerned with any publicity that would have come had she waited until His burial. She saw an opportunity to bless Him, she had the ability to bless Him, and so she did, even if it was undeniably weird and a little bit creepy. Then I began to think about the scripture from Philippians. Paul says if anyone is to boast about gifts and prestige, it’s him. He talks about the gifts he has on earth meaning everything to society but meaning absolutely nothing when compared to having the opportunity to worship the Lord and one day enjoying in His resurrection. And after letting that sink in, I came to this conclusion. The answer to the question is no. There is absolutely no better use of a gift than giving glory to God with it. Although there might seem at the time a better way to take advantage of your gift, it’s result will eventually pale in comparison to what comes from you blessing the Lord with it. And despite the eloquent speech of some people, and the friendly faces of others, there are always people lurking around every corner looking to use your gift to their advantage. Paul warns us about these people in Ephesians 4:14, where it says, “That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive.” I want you to pay attention to where the Word says “and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive.” So there are people out in there in that big bad bold world with cunning craftiness, and they are lying in every corner, crack, and crevice waiting to use their sweet voice, their swag, and their frat-tastic awesomeness to make sure your gift is ineffective in bringing God glory. If you trust God with what He has given you, and trust that He knows what He is doing when He uses it for His will, you don’t have to be as worried

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about you being taken advantage of as you would have had you decided on another course of action. It is our calling as Christians to capitalize on any chance given to us to show gratitude for what God has done for us, and everyone has a gift that’s as valuable, as if not more valuable, than that oil. Some have more gifts than others, some gifts might be more popular than others, and some might be abstract and weird like being exceptional at washing feet with hair. I’m not the most athletic person at this educational institution, and I don’t sound that good singing, even when I’m in the shower. But I have been given gifts, and it is my duty and more often than

In the reading of the scripture this morning, we heard the word “covenant.” That’s a word we hear a lot during worship services when we come to the altar to partake of communion. The Bible mentions numerous covenants: God’s covenant with Noah, Abraham, the Hebrew people, and others. The prophet Jeremiah speaks of a “new covenant” to come. Most of us have an understanding of that word as meaning a promise or a contract between people. In this case, the word “covenant” refers to the promise made between God and his people. When Jesus broke bread with his disciples, he said “this is the new covenant in my blood.” In order to come to a full understanding of the depth of that relationship, we need to take a look at an ancient Hebrew practice known as the “Blood Covenant.” Whenever two Hebrew tribes wished to limit their weaknesses, they would enter into a blood covenant with each other. For instance, let’s say there was a tribe that was particularly adept at farming and another tribe was known for being great warriors.

The Blood Covenant SermonBy Dr. Bart Pointer, ASES Upper School faculty member

not my pleasure to use those gifts to bring God glory. And when you use your gifts, whatever they might be, to bring Him glory, you don’t have to worry about them being used in their fullest capacity. Everyone has something to offer the Lord as well as their fellow man, and what you have to offer is far more valuable than that oil and any other human possession, so don’t let it go to waste.

Amen

Both had something to offer the other. They would compose a contract and mutually agree to abide by it. At that point they would engage in a covenantal ceremony. It was extremely important to choose an appropriate site, preferably a valley between two hills or a natural amphitheater. The purpose was to provide a good view for the members of both tribes so that the ceremony would have an impact on all who attended. After choosing a site, they would choose one or two sacrificial animals. Quite frequently we read about sacrifices involving a “fatted calf.” For the purpose of this ceremony, it was essential to sacrifice large animals so as to spill as much blood as possible. The sacrificial animals represented the sum total of possessions of both parties. They would slice the animal down the backbone and lay the two halves several feet apart, creating a walkway of blood. Dressed in their finest attire, the representatives for each tribe would exchange coats, which represented a person’s identity, strength, and authority. Symbolically, they were saying “I am giving

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you all of myself; I pledge myself and my people to you.” Then they would exchange belts, which is where they kept their weapons. In doing so, they were saying that “I pledge my strength to you; your enemies are my enemies and I will defend you to the death.” After this exchange of garments, the two representatives would walk a figure-eight pattern around the two animal halves, ending up where the other had stood. This was symbolic of dying and rebirth; “I am dying as myself and being reborn as you. My life is your life; I am one with you.” After exchanging places, they would recite the terms and curses of the covenant. This “walkway of blood” was their way of acknowledging that if either tribe broke the covenant, then may “God do to us what we did to these animals.” To solidify this oath, they would raise their right hands and a cut would be made across their arms, wrists, or thumbs. They would join arms as their blood flowed and mingled, usually into a wine glass. They would exchange names, meaning that they were now “friends.” There is an old saying that “blood is thicker than water,” which most people take to mean that family members are most important. The real meaning of that expression is that “the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, or the breast.” In other words, my voluntary entry into this agreement is even more important than my obligation to family. A substance would be rubbed into the wounds to guarantee that large scars would form to serve as a constant reminder of the covenant. When the cut had been made around the thumb, it looked like a ring, which is quite likely the origin of the wedding band (but less messy). The two tribes were now “married” to each other. “All that I am and have is yours.” The final activity was the participation of the two tribes in a “remembrance party.” This was the

highlight of the ceremony, during which time they would eat a covenant meal. Upon sharing bread and wine, they would say “this is my body, eat of it, and this is my blood, drink of it.” The intent was to suggest that “I will feed you with my own body rather than let you starve to death.” The key word in this ceremony was “remember.” The Hebrew word means to “mark” or “relive” something, to always remain aware of this promise to each other. “I will always find ways to empower you to prosper because I am right now standing in that blood with you, dying to myself and being born again with you. I will be selfless in my giving to you.” Such a commitment was typically binding for between seven and eleven generations to come. With God, our covenant is forever binding. When Luke writes about the “new covenant” in Jesus Christ, we are reminded of God’s promise to us, the forgiveness of sins, sealed in the sacrificial blood of his son Jesus Christ. Today, I hope that all of us will consider the other component of that contract. What is it that we have promised God through our baptism? What is our mission as practicing Christians? I would ask each of us today that, as we approach the altar to partake of communion, we are reaffirming our faith in God and our commitment to spread His word and love through all that we say and do.

Amen.

39Photo by Marshall Neve

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The GiftBy Margaret Boschini

CASTRandy………………………………………………… Randy is a guy in his late twenties who comes off as

cocky and cool, but deep down he is a great friend even though he can be insensitive.

Chad………………………………………………. Chad is Randy’s best friend. Contrary to Randy, he is a very sweet and sensitive sort of guy. However, he does have

his breaking point, and can be dramatic.

SETTINGThe show takes place in Chad’s living room. It should be messy, the typical “man cave”, with some trash on the ground. Maybe add in a couch, some chairs, etc...

(Lights up as CHAD is sitting on the floor with all of the supplies needed to wrap presents, i.e. scissors, tape, rulers, and lots of wrapping paper. He is carefully using the ruler and obviously trying very hard to make everything perfect. He finishes the wrapping. Enter RANDY.)

RANDYHey Chad, whatcha up to? Like my new shirt? I got it just for the party tonight, it’s pretty smooth huh? Huh!? Chad? What are you doing?CHAD(concentrating) Shh! I’m trying to wrap this present!RANDYDude… what? You’re wrapping a present? Why?CHADCuz…Cuz it’s Christmas and that’s what you do. Now go away! I gotta concentrate.

RANDYChad, since when do we wrap presents? We’re guys. This is weird. Who is it even for?!CHADUm…nobody…RANDYOooh. I see what’s goin’ on here. Chad’s got himself a girlfriend. CHADI do not!RANDYReally? Because I’m pretty sure that nobody wraps a present for NOBODY! So I think…I think that you must be wrapping that for SOMEBODY. Come on, let’s hear it! Who is she?CHADFine. It’s…it’s for Rachael. I dunno man… I think I might kinda like her.RANDYLike her?CHADYeah, you know. I think that I might kind of have a thing for her.RANDYYes, you do have a thing for her. You have a present for her. What I’m wondering is why?CHADRandy, you know what I mean. I have a crush on her.RANDYThis is a joke right?CHADNo, this isn’t a JOKE! Rachael’s great! She pretty and nice and…worth getting a present for! What’s wrong with Rachael?!

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RANDYNothing is wrong with her. That’s why I like her.CHADYou?RANDYYeah, me! Phew, good thing I got here when I did! What if you actually gave this to her? Haha..awkward huh?

(Randy takes the present and begins to walk away.)

CHADNow wait just a second, Randy! Where do you think you’re going with that?! I need it!RANDYWell I was just thinking that since you worked so hard on it, that I might as well give it to her now. That way, your hard work isn’t wasted. See bud? I’m just thinking of you.CHADNo! Who says I don’t get to give it to her?! I bought it! I wrapped it! RANDYChad, I know this is tough to hear. (overly sympathetic back pat) But there is nothing to be done about this. I called dibs on Rachael a long time ago.CHADDibs?! You called dibs? Ooh Randy!! Well why didn’t ya just say so? I’m sooo sorry that I overstepped the sacred boundary of DIBS! What was I thinking?!RANDY…Are you being sarcastic?CHADYES, I’m being sarcastic! You can’t just go around calling DIBS on whatever the heck you want! Hey Randy, dibs on your car! Dibs on your Xbox! Dibs on your fancy new shirt! Dibs on your little sister!RANDY

Woah, woah, woah now wait just a second man. You’re talking crazy. And I don’t even know why you would WANT my little sister…CHADI DON’T want your little sister!!! I want Rachael!!RANDYWell she’s mine so deal with it! (Indicating the present) What’s even in that anyway? CHADI’m not telling you!! How do I know you won’t just run out real quick and get her something better?!RANDYPlease man, I already got her a little something.

(RANDY smoothly pulls a card out of his pocket and tosses it on the floor in from of CHAD. CHAD stares at it for a bit until his curiosity gets the best of him. He sighs

and opens it. Then he makes a strange face.)

CHAD(reading the card) “Have a good one, babe.”?RANDY(smugly) Yup. (sexy voice) Like, “Have a good one, babe”.CHAD(laughing) oh gee.. that really sucks man! I don’t even know what I was worried about-RANDY(defensively) It does not!!! You just don’t know what women want!CHADOh, I don’t know what women want?? Well I’m pretty sure that they want a liiittle bit more than “Have a good one, babe!”.RANDYNah man, you don’t get it. You gotta be a little…mean.CHADYeah, so I gotta be MEAN and that will make girls like

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me? Ha, that doesn’t even make sense.RANDYExactly! You know what else doesn’t make sense?! WOMEN. You gotta beat ‘em at their own, scary little… mean-game!!CHADThen I guess that you shouldn’t mind me giving this to Rachael one bit.RANDYBut I do! Because…because I really care about her!CHADOh, you do? Do you REALLY care about her Randy!? What color are her eyes?RANDYGreen!CHAD(like a buzzer) Errrrr. Brown. RANDY(shouted asap after CHAD’s “brown”) Brown! CHAD(shaking head) You’re impossible, man.RANDYListen, I can’t just be creepily staring at her EYES all time!CHADYeah, because looking into someone else’s eyes is generally considered a weird thing to do. RANDYYou know what I mean! For someone as dumb as you are, you are a remarkable smart Alec!CHADHey!! Now you better watch it man! You’re starting to actually make me angry!RANDYOooh noooo! I made the little present wrapping elf angry! What are you gonna do? Throw gumdrops at me?!(RANDY takes the present and begins to unwrap it

violently, shredding the paper. CHAD, horrified, grabs it back.)CHADRANDY!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! What did you just do!? (Randy kneels down dramatically in from of the now half-wrapped present) WHYYYYYYYYY?!RANDYGeez dude, calm down! I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d freak out like this!CHADRandy I AM freaking out. That was all of the wrapping paper that I had!! Now it is ruined, and I don’t have time to run out and get more wrapping paper before the party tonight! Randy! GOSH! I am so SICK of you doing this! You ruin everything for me! It’s like your hobby or something. And I am so sick of it!

(Chad desperately scrambles on the floor and tries to rewrap the present, but it is obviously not happening. He

is in a frenzy.)

RANDYListen I said I was sorry! I… I didn’t know that this was such a big deal for you! It’s okay Chad. It’s gonna be okay. Look, you can give it to her! I’m fine with that! Here, take my dibs! (CHAD continues his episode) Why does it even have to be wrapped?CHAD(looking up suddenly) Because I want her to think that I actually CARE! Unlike YOU! RANDYI do care!!! (CHAD shoots RANDY a nasty look) Okay fine listen, hear me out. You’re right. I don’t really care about Rachael. Not like you do anyway. I mean, I don’t even know what color her eyes are-CHADBrown.RANDY

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Yes, brown. Or what color her hair is…CHAD(lovingly) Brown…RANDYOr what school she went to…CHADShe went to Brown.RANDYOr what her favorite food is…CHAD(thinks for a second) oh! Brownies!RANDY(makes a face) Yeeah well you get the point. I don’t care about Rachael. Not really. But I do care about you. And seeing you like this is really messin’ with me! So…here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna wrap this up for you. Even better then it was before! CHAD(hysterically) It’s impossible! RANDYNo, no, no it’s not!

(Randy hesitantly attempts to rewrap the present, but is obviously failing horribly due to both lack of wrapping

paper and lack of wrapping skills.)

You just kinda gotta…put this here and… patch this up right here and…. There! It’s perfect! Just like it was before! (CHAD looks at RANDY hopelessly.) Hey, I know man! Let’s just use this newspaper right here!

(RANDY picks up a discarded piece of newspaper off of the floor and hands it to CHAD. CHAD smiles and

begins to wrap the present when suddenly his face changes into a horrified expression.)

RANDYWhat?! What’s wrong?

CHADThese are the obituaries Randy.RANDYSo?CHADSo it’s CHRISTMAS, Randy! It’s a HAPPY time. And you wanna know what people DON’T wanna hear on Christmas?!(reading lamely) Jesus Christ is born, but Chester White, Jane Kirk, and Lutz Bukowski are all dead as of this morning, so...RANDYOkay, I see it now…CHADGive it up Randy, just go. I’ll stay here I guess, and read the obits. Thanks for helping me out though man. You’re a great friend.

(All of the sudden, RANDY’S face lights up. In his excitement, he begins to unbutton his “fancy new shirt”

and take it off)

CHADOh my gosh, what are you doing?! All I said was that you were a good friend!!! RANDYNo! We can use it to wrap your present!!CHADWhat??!RANDYMy shirt!! You can use it to wrap her present. It’s so shiny, she won’t even know the difference! Plus, it’s brown, and I have this strange feeling that that is her favorite color…CHADHey, it IS!! This is great! But… What will you wear to the party?RANDYI just won’t go. Look, you need to get a move on

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wrapping that thing if you’re gonna be on time, so I’m gonna head home. I’ll see you man.CHADHey Randy? Dibs on being your friend forever.

RANDY(smiles) Shut up man. Just don’t call dibs on my Xbox.

(exit RANDY. CHAD begins to wrap the present when the phone rings. He picks it up and answers.)

CHADHello? Oh, Rachael, hi! Yes, I’m coming, I’ll be there in a few. I’ve just got something to finish up first. You won’t believe what I got you! (laughs) Um… Rachael? I…You know what never mind. Just… save me a seat next to you and(CHAD smiles to himself)…and have a good one, babe.

(CHAD hangs up, smiles. BLACKOUT.)

Jessica Ivy

Ali Kaitcer

Tayler Wethers

Kelsey Ramsey

Will Shipman

Kort Keunstler

Brice EarlBrice Earley

Hudson Cleveland

Emily Marcho

Betsy Shelton

Michael Power

Kelly Carroll

Mae Maly

Joe Morris

Hope Gutierrez

Emily Cook

Christian Broussard

DDr. Bart Pointer

Margaret Boshini

Marshall Neve

Alli Papa

Allison Cribbs

Carolina Martinez

Genevieve Merrill

Kasey Grona

Madelaine Brockway

Preston Percival

Cate Smith

Gracie ChambersGracie Chambers

Genevieve Hodges

Tami Clark

Mackenzie Shoppa

Nathanael King

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