Tapestry 2018 by Archmere Academy

TAPESTRY 2018

Reflections Lauren Chua â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18 Scholastic National Gold Key

TAPESTRY 2018 ARCHMERE ACADEMYâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS MAGAZINE

Archmere Academy 3600 Philadelphia Pike Claymont, Delaware 19703 302-798-6632 www.archmereacademy.com

Mickey Julia Jogani â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

TAPESTRY 2018 Table of Contents

Face In Time, photograph, Anna Garcia ‘20..............................................................cover Reflections, acrylic, Lauren Chua ‘18.................................................................inside cover Mickey, sculpture, Julia Jogani ‘19.....................................................................................2 Our Strip of Film, Caroline Donovan ‘19............................................................................4 It Should Be Me, Gabrielle Dayrit ‘18.................................................................................6 Untitled, acrylic, Cassie Patterson ‘18.................................................................................7 Untitled, digital manipulation, Lauren Chua ‘19................................................................8 Simplicity and Confidence, Francis Fanning ‘18................................................................9 Mr. Stephen, Natasha Gengler ‘18 & Alisa Yakovenko ‘18..............................................10 Auk Pajama Party, sculpture, Kate Olsen ‘19.....................................................................13 XVII, watercolor, Lauren Chua ‘18....................................................................................14 Where It All Began..., Annie Martino ‘18...........................................................................15 Called To Be Cast (An Excerpt), Alexis Rendel ‘21.............................................................16 An Old Friend, Caroline Donovan ‘19...............................................................................18 Untitled, digital manipulation, Krupa Patel ‘18................................................................21 Rusted Spokes, charcoal drawing, Kyla McAvinue ‘19.....................................................22 The Dust Bowl, Ryan Alzamora ‘18..................................................................................23 Irish Bison, Connor Smeader ‘18......................................................................................24 Viking, sculpture, Nick Friedman ‘20...............................................................................25 A Race Against Time, charcoal drawing, Abigail Gilbert ‘19............................................26 December 25th, 1914, Emily Lugg ‘19...............................................................................27 I’m Here For You, America, Caroline Ho ‘21....................................................................28 Stall Wars, Seth Bale ‘19....................................................................................................30 Wish Granted, digital image, Madison Downey ‘20..........................................................31 Horned Curl, Brian Neill ‘19..............................................................................................32 Travel Through Time, Elena Tarte ‘18..............................................................................33 Warmth, Katherine Alberta ‘19.........................................................................................34 Age, digital photograph, Theresa Chua ‘19........................................................................37 Ray Bans, Francis Fanning ‘18..........................................................................................38 666, mixed media, Taylor Gerard ‘19 ..............................................................................39 Reconnaissance, Grace Zhang ‘18.....................................................................................40 Abstract Figure, sculpture, Nicki Kelly ‘18........................................................................42 The Year I Was Born, Mr. John Jordan ‘80......................................................................43 For the Romantics, Grace Zhang ‘18.................................................................................44 Self Portrait, mixed media, Brian Carbajal ‘21.................................................................45 Sunken Memory, Kevin Jasani ‘18....................................................................................46 Silo, photograph, Riley Beck ‘18........................................................................................47 Untitled, watercolor, Lauren Wilson ‘20...........................................................................48 LIV-ing the American Dream, Olivia Baldi ‘18.................................................................49 Extraordinarily Heroic, Gillen Curren ‘18.........................................................................50 The Strike on the Pike, Mr. Robert Nowaczyk..................................................................52 My Sea of Dreams, Olivia Baldi ‘18...................................................................................54 Whistleview, Nikoleta Testa ‘18.........................................................................................55 Hoornkill Avenue, Caroline Donovan ‘19.........................................................................56 Untitled, acrylic, Jocelyn Philips ‘18..................................................................................57 To Melvin H. Smallville, 1906-1977, Emily Lugg ‘19.........................................................58

Our Strip of Film I fumble with the body of the camera and grapple with the hinge until the clasp releases and the door swings open. With my thumb and forefinger, I retrieve the canister of film. I race down the tile steps toward the basement, plunge into the security of the dark room, and I begin the process of developing the film. After hours of patience, I witness the gradual appearance of the pictures. Scratches on the film Thin cuts and indentations on the dark square; I struggle to define the letters and disentangle the words from the veil of darkness of the frame. “I’ve never thought on my own of marrying someone, and then wanted it like I have with you.” Ink blots The bus rocked back and forth as it slowly progressed down the gravel road. I sat alone in the backseat, and I gazed in silence at the breathtaking mountain range. The rocks – purple, blue – presented themselves as dollops of color in a painting. I reached out, yearning for a paintbrush, with a desire to join the colors of the sky with the mountain and its valley to create an expert painter’s completed canvas. As I pondered the artwork before my eyes, another person stole my attention. He sat in the seat directly in front of me – no phone in his hand, no camera blocking his eyes, no distractions. He stared as I stared at the mountain range. I smiled. The bus rolled on, and I turned my attention back to the earth. Underexposed The ominous, red glowing lights illuminated the dark room. My hands groped for the film in the pitch darkness. His hands brushed against my cold palms. Goosebumps chased each other across my skin, and they nipped at the back of my neck. His hips leaned into me; the pressure remained for less than the click of a camera before he pulled away and retreated into the darkness. Overexposed The frigid chill dominated the breeze; the sunlight blinded my eyes as it reflected off of the bare branches and fragments of snow. I folded my arms, and I shivered beneath the thin layer of my jacket. We strolled through the park, and we searched for the proper fragmented spotlight of sunshine streaming through the bare branches of the trees. As we walked, I refused to take a single photograph. It wouldn’t have captured the sharp air that threw thumbtacks against our skin. It wouldn’t have felt the warmth of his palm pressed against my skin. It wouldn’t have sensed the longing, the thoughts, the relief, and the desire for more time. Out of Focus Tears coated my vision in a watery haze, yet I peered through the surface to study his eyes. His eyes possessed depth and dimension. His eyes emitted soft warmth and a strong, undeniable passion. His eyes offered a glimpse into the future and a summary of the past. His eyes were a gift – a present. His eyes gave me the promise of something real, something farfetched, something long-lasting. I whispered to him in the dimly lit room. The words sank into him, and they melted on my lips. Two tears fell. He returned my whisper with four soft syllables as our damp faces pressed against each other.

No true black or white; gray Gray sky. The roads glistened with the memory of a recent rain. Our sneakers squeaked against the slippery surface. The vacant road swallowed us whole. It swallowed the sound. It swallowed the feeling, the emotion, and the moment, freezing us in an endless stream of time. And in the stomach of the empty road, he pulled me in, never breaking the seal of our palms, and he dropped a kiss on my lips. Shallow Depth of Field I pictured him, lying on top of the blankets of his bed and whispering to me in the dark. Convincing my mind that he laid next to me and not miles away, I floundered for his flesh in the shadows. His deep voice undulated in my ear canal. Staring at the ceiling, I laid in the dark listening to the muffle of his voice and the rhythm of his beating heart. Thump, thump, thump, thump. My eyelids drooped as I nearly fell asleep to the drumbeat of his heart. Scratches on the Film A final message etched into the black frame. “I want you to know that whatever happens days, weeks, months, or years from now, you changed my life the moment you walked into it, and I’ll forever thank you for being you and for allowing me to be me – because there’s no one I’d rather share my complete self with.” *** The last dark box on the strip of film slowly morphs into a picture. Carefully, I caress each individual photograph with my thumb. Then, I snatch another canister of film from the top shelf, insert it into the camera, and run out the door and into the gleaming sunlight. I leave our strip of film hanging from the ceiling; it sways back and forth with our arms as we hold hands and run. Caroline Donovan ‘19 Scholastic Gold Key Personal Essay

It Should Be Me Envy lounges in the living room, Laying down on the couch flat on her back. She gazes at her phone screen, Scrolling and refreshing her Instagram feed. Double-tapping, giving likes, Post after post, vacation after vacation, Frustration engulfs her as she forcefully Jabs each post twice, mumbling to herself, I wish I was there in Amsterdam. She doesn’t deserve to be there. I gave her that vacation idea; It should be me. Envy flips over on her stomach Chest down on the Soft, plush, velvet couch and continues She’s too ugly to Have a boyfriend like that. Who is she kidding? Envy flings her phone On the hardwood floor, Shattering the glass screen. Gabrielle Dayrit ‘18

Untitled Cassie Patterson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Untitled Lauren Chua â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

Simplicity and Confidence (After Sandra Cisneros) I like my name. In almost all languages and cultures, my name means ‘free one’ or ‘freedom.’ My name also refers to any person or object originating from France. I like to think I am free. I am sure I thoroughly enjoy comforting feeling of freedom just as I do sweet, buttery French toast or a crisp, warm baguette. It is my father’s name as well as his uncle’s. My father is and my great-uncle was a man of simplicity and confidence: frankness. When my uncle Frank died, I felt a greater importance and role in my extended family as I was one of now only two holders of the name. My grandfather, my favorite person in the world, was very close with his brother Frank as their shared childhood created a very strong bond. I like to think my pop sees his brother in me. As young adults, my pop and his brother Frank spent a lot of time together. Since my pop was two years younger, he had to learn how to adapt to an older crowd and act appropriately in certain situations where he might lack experience or poise. This is a big reason why he is how he is today: calm, loving, confident, and kind. He always puts his family before himself, a truly admirable quality that all good leaders of families should have. And so, this trait trickles down to his three sons he raised, who all now have three children of their own. With five total boys within that nine total grandchildren, his life goal is that they all receive the wisdom and capability to be successful in any and all of their life facets just as he has been. I, being the oldest of those nine grandchildren and five boys, feel my role as the leader of the next generation of my family and my duty to carry on the Fanning name as well as my name just as my father and his uncle did before him. I hope to carry on all that I can from the older generations of my family and be the liaison between them and the future. Although my uncle Frank will not be able to meet the future of his family, I believe his mission as a leader of my family is succeeded through me. Francis Fanning ‘18

Mr. Stephen (After Joseph Heller) “Listen here, philistines.” Each chair in the English office swiveled to face the center island while each occupant of each chair craned his neck at a seventy degree angle to gaze upon his quixotic department head. “If we’re going to overcome the other departments to be named the most college preparatory department of this college preparatory high school by The Green Arch, we’re going to need to triumph in these dolts’ course evaluations. I know none of our half-witted students possess the acuity of true literary geniuses, such as Ernest Hemingway, Joseph Heller, Muriel Spark, or Stephen Klinge, but if we inculcate those artistic writing styles into our students then perhaps their undersized brains will adapt to writing in an ersatz style to these greats.” “Before I astound you with my sacrosanct word, would anyone like to praise me or propose a dialectical topic you pondered while attempting to emulate me?” A solemn soprano-pitched tone radiated from three phones and a laptop on the far wall. “Hey Steve, this has been a really productive meeting! I’m so glad you’re my work husband. Looks like it’s time for me to dip, as a student is scheduled to meet with me in about ten minutes. Could you let them know that they can reschedule for after school next Tuesday, when I have a doctors’ appointment? Thanks, hun!” Before Mr. Klinge could dismiss her, Mrs. Cocco rushed to the window to scale down the carefully prepared ladder before any of her students could catch a glimpse of her. “Well, at least I can pander to the rest of you. Any other comments of substance before my sui generis teaching techniques overwhelm your pedestrian educational styles?” “You know, Steve,” Mr. Jordan reflected as he removed a notebook from the waistband of his Flynn & O’Hara khaki pants, “I think we should join forces with the other departments to help prepare our students for the fast-paced life of college. Also, I think we should help them develop the skills to le--” “Leave Archmere better than they found it? Forget that childish mentality, John. Our goal isn’t to help the students prepare for college. It’s to be the most essential department to college preparation, and there’s only one way to accomplish that: by preparing them for college.” Mr. Deakins briefly paused his sketching of football plays. “Actually, Steve, I did have a concern about how frequently we should quiz students on the amount of words in each reading. Last week, they claimed that their older siblings maintain that ‘Steve’s quizzes are much easier,’” he remarked in a slow, southern drawl. “Your students call me Steve?” “No, sir. When have you heard them call you Steve? ” “I’m asking the questions here, Jon. You’re answering them.” “Yes, sir. I just wanted to know when you heard them call you Steve.” “Did you come to this meeting to ask questions and for me to answer them?”

“Yes, sir.” “I’m asking the questions here, Jon. You’re answering them.” “Yes, sir. I just wanted to know when you heard them call you Steve.” “Did you come to this meeting to ask questions and for me to answer them?” “Yes, sir.” “That’s what I thought. Now, what did you want to ask me?” “When did you hear my students call you Steve?” “Your students call me Steve? When did you tell them they could do that?” “I don’t think I ever made that statement, sir.” “You just told me that you did tell them that.” “Tell them what?” “Just what the hell are you talking about?” “We were talking about me telling my students that they can call you Steve.” “You told them to call me Steve? When did you say that?” “I never said that.” “I didn’t ask what you didn’t tell them. I asked when you didn’t tell them.” “I always didn’t tell my students they couldn’t not call you Steve.” “You’re on thin ice, Jon. If anything, I would prefer to be honored with my proper title, Stephen.” Each pair of eyes in the office continued to stare blankly at their tall superior as he eagerly awaited their response. “Don’t you get the pun? If you knew anything at all about Greek etymology, you’d understand that Stephen means honor. It’s really quite an intelligent wordplay if you uncultured rats would ponder it for more than a millisecond.” “I think it was an excellent pun, Mr. Stephen. May I just say how much you dazzle me every day? After spending hours and hours thinking of your brilliant mind, I decided to spend the time I allotted for course changes to help our department triumph instead. Hear me out here-- what if we were to raise the homework minimum for all English classes to seven hours a night? Then, the students can read Catch-22 in one night! Even the AP History, Science, and Math courses only assign up to an hour of homework a night, and don’t even get me started on the foreign language department. This way, we are bound to stick out as the most preparatory of all the college preparatory classes at this college preparatory high school that prepares you for college. “Excellent idea, Timothy! What is Catch-22? Never mind that, I don’t want to hear of any more numbers today. Let’s discuss the numerical aspects of your proposition. Do you really think the frail little minds of our student body would be able to handle such an odd number as seven if we were to dominate so heavily over the math courses? I think the best solution to this issue is to raise the homework hours to a nice even number, say 11.62 hours per night.”

“Wow, Mr. Stephen! You’ve done it again!” Timothy broke down in histrionics at Mr. Stephen’s achingly astute suggestion. “Timothy, please contain your visceral reaction. This is not how the famously urbane department of Literature should behave itself.” “Yes, sir.” Timothy choked out between tearful gasps. “Once again, I’ve led the English department through another successful meeting! With only 24 ‘to be’ verbs too! That would earn me a -14/10 on the style grade. I’ve really outdone myself today. You really are all so lucky to have me here. Please give me credit when credit is due, perhaps when you receive any positive teacher evaluations. I hope you all know that it’s only with my guidance that you could ever hope to attain those high marks.” After winning that evening’s football game, Mr. Deakins made sure to credit the ever-working Mr. Klinge for the success of the JV Football team. Natasha Gengler ‘18 and Alisa Yakovenko ‘18

Auk Pajama Party Kate Olsen â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

XVII Lauren Chua â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Where It All Began... It all began on New Year’s Eve two years ago. While peacefully enjoying myself and awaiting the ball to drop at midnight, my current obsession, K-Pop entered into my life. My best friend forcibly pinned me to a chair and made me watch endless K-Pop music videos. What I thought would be pure torture morphed into curiosity and then into a guilty pleasure. The perfectly synchronized dancing, flamboyant style, flashy makeup, and over-the-top music videos immediately piqued my interest. There was something unique about K-Pop. Perhaps it was the distinctive, extravagant, and eye-popping personalities of the “idols” or the mesmerizing melodies. Whatever it was, I was instantly hooked. I stayed up the whole night watching endless music videos and compiling a K-Pop playlist filled with songs from EXO, BTS, and GOT7. I became a fan overnight. I wanted to share my newfound love of K-Pop with the world; however, my friends and family were quick to question my new taste in music. I was immediately asked “You don’t even understand the lyrics, how can you like K-Pop so much?” “Why are you so fond of the idols?” Whenever I wanted to play a new K-Pop song that I had just discovered for my friends, the first response was always, “Annie, turn it off!” I was initially disheartened by such unfavorable remarks. Despite these criticisms, my love for K-POP was unwavering. And, while it has taken some time, I am gradually winning over some of my friends to this new genre. I have learned that music is a universal language. Although I do not understand the lyrics, I can feel the emotion expressed by the singers through their tunes, rhythms, and dance. They communicate their aspirations to become international stars through diligent practice and perfectly synchronised dancing. I see their determination and courage to break into the western market despite the odds of success. What started as a guilty pleasure became a life lesson of aspiration and courage to me. K-Pop revealed a whole world and culture to me. I began to explore more things in the Korean culture: the food, language, and television dramas. I am also interested in their fashion and makeup style. I started to understand Koreans’ increasing impact on global trends through innovation and a strong work ethic both in manufacturing and entertainment. Although I already have a love of learning languages, due to my Chinese, Italian, and Polish heritage, K-Pop has rekindled my passion with new vigor. I was especially inspired by K-Pop idols who have mastered multiple languages in order to appeal to international audiences. The hard work and dedication of multilingual vocalists are true inspirations to me, as I aspire to become a medical doctor who aims to deliver medical care to patients globally through Doctors Without Borders. K-Pop has enabled me to create or renew bonds with friends and distant relatives. Through K-Pop, I have a connection with my Chinese cousin living in California and my Polish cousin living in Alabama. Although we live in different geographic regions and have different cultural backgrounds, our bond through K-Pop permeates through the divide. What seemed to be just a guilty pleasure has truly become a source of inspiration and opened up a new world to me. I have learned to maintain an open attitude to explore new things, even when they do not initially make sense. Because of this newfound attitude, I believe that I won’t miss the pleasant surprises in life. This inspiration and openness will help me to be successful in my college life to leverage every opportunity to grow as a scholar and leader. Annie Martino ‘18

Called To Be Cast (An Excerpt) Setting: Kennedy High School, present day. Characters: Harry (or Harriet), Levi, Hermione, Celeste Daw, Andy Everett, Brandon Jacobs, Felicity Ostein, Auditioners 1 and 2 Scene 1: Welcome (The stage is black except for a backlight casting a shadow of the set. A spotlight shines downstage right on HERMIONE, who steps up to the light.) HERMIONE (to audience): Welcome to the auditions for Kennedy High’s production of The Wizard of Oz. Directing this production is our very own drama teacher, Harry Levi. My name’s Hermione. I’m the assistant to the director. I will escort you into the audition room, introduce you to the director, and in the event of the occasional panic attack, I will provide an inhaler. (Looking directly at someone in the audience) I will also provide a little background info on our auditioners just for your convenience. Now, let’s get this dog and pony show started, shall we? (Lights come up on stage. A door lies center stage. A collection of chairs sit on either side. CELESTE and ANDY sit on one side of the door with BRANDON and FELICITY on the other. Other cast members sit next to them. Further downstage left lies a table where the DIRECTOR sits eating a doughnut with a coffee looking at a paper. HERMIONE remains in spotlight but looks at auditioners who sit in awkward silence.) HERMIONE (to auditioners): I will call you in one at a time. The auditions will begin shortly. MR. LEVI (in a bored tone, not looking up): Hermione, Come in here. Now, please. (HERMIONE leaves to walk through the door right up next to HARRY. Light goes off on director’s table. Spotlights come on auditioners) Scene 3: Tada! It’s Celeste Daw! (HERMIONE and CELESTE walk into the room. MR. LEVI is still looking down at the papers on the table. CELESTE takes downstage center and a spotlight comes up on her. HERMIONE takes downstage right with a light on her. CELESTE stands confidently in the center of the room.) MR. LEVI (still looking down): Name. (CELESTE strikes a pose and opens her mouth to speak before freezing) HERMIONE: Celeste Daw. Been singing and dancing since she saw Mary Poppins as a threeyear-old. She’s had every lead since she was 10, although sometimes she acts like... think Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada.

MR. LEVI (looking up in interest): Ah, Celeste. How are we today? CELESTE (speaking sweetly): Practically perfect in every way. (MR. LEVI chuckles) MR. LEVI: Splendid. Well before we get started with the singing audition a bit later, I have a few questions. CELESTE: Of course. MR. LEVI: You’re auditioning for Dorothy? Correct? CELESTE: I can’t see myself in any other part. MR. LEVI: Right. What makes you right for this part? How do you connect with the character? CELESTE (clears her throat): Well, similar to Dorothy, I too find myself often in a constant state of wonder and hope to find my place or... home in life. Dorothy is lost in Oz and I too wonder if I’m lost, lost in my search to find my je ne sais quoi, you know? (brightly) MR. LEVI (confused): No. Anyway, why do you want this part? (Blackout everyone except CELESTE. Spotlight on her becomes brighter.) CELESTE (to audience, looking desperate): I want this part. No, I need this part. I’ve had every lead since I was in my fourth-grade production of Little Red Riding Hood. My name literally means “shining star” which is what I am. If I don’t get this part then, well, I’m done. My reputation... it’s gone. Out the window, finished. And of course, I’m not worried about not getting the part, not that worried anyway. It’s just, my parents don’t get it. I’m an only child so their attention is always on me when they’re home. Of course, I’m not complaining about that, but they just don’t, get it. My mom’s an on-call ER doctor, so she’s never home. My dad’s a cop, so he gets home really late.They don’t understand theater or see how it can be a rewarding profession, so if and when they come to my performances, I need to be the star. You know, to show them that I can do this and that they shouldn’t underestimate me. All those people out there, they don’t what it’s like coming home to an empty house every night, catching a carpool to my dance classes, living off of energy bars and cereal because no one cooks, and working my butt off just to hope that my own parents will be able to show up to my recitals, shows, whatever. (taking a breath) So I need this part.  (Lights come back up on HERMIONE and MR. LEVI. CELESTE turns back to MR. LEVI and smiles.) CELESTE: I want this part because I feel I have a deep personal connection to Dorothy and I think she is the best fit for me. MR. LEVI: Alright. Thank you, Celeste.  CELESTE: You got my resume and headshot I presume?  MR. LEVI (sighing): Yes, unneeded as always. You may go now. (HERMIONE escorts CELESTE out. Blackout as they walk through the door.) Alexis Rendel ‘21 Scholastic Honorable Mention Dramatic Script

An Old Friend The stream of minuscule dust particles glided through the ray of 5:00 pm sunlight. The soft yellow light, tinged with burnt orange, drew sharp patterns, shapes, and shadows on the cheap plywood of my office desk. Tap tap tap tap tap. My foot thrummed against the plastic leg of the desk. Tap tap tap tap tap. I urged the time to move faster or to stop all together; I would settle for either. But, the minutes passed slowly and sarcastically responded to the quick tapping of my feet with a gradual t-i-c-k t-oc-k t-i-c-k t-o-c-k. Five more minutes. Five more minutes until I could go back to my – I halted my own thought and shoved it far into the corner of my mind, behind settlement dates and divorce lawyer fees. I peered out the front window into the vacant parking lot. Realizing the unlikeliness of a customer requesting the expertise of an unsuccessful lawyer, I shut down the computer and threw my empty “coffee” cup in the trash. I had no real reason to conceal the obsession that ripped my marriage in half; an empty parking lot promised more than a humiliating bank account; it promised loneliness. I packed my briefcase, un-tucked my shirt, loosened my tie, and exited the office. I locked the door and mindlessly flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Refusing to alter tradition, I climbed into my 20 year old Ford, lit a cigarette, and began the five-minute drive to the local bar. “Good evening Mr. Bradberry. Whiskey coming right up.” I waved at the middle-aged bar tender with my right hand and extinguished the cigarette with my left. I slid into my booth, the one in the far corner of the bar. The framed picture of Babe Ruth hanging above my head sent a familiar greeting. The foam gushed from cracks and slits in the pseudo leather seats. I rested my greasy face in my dry hands, wiped the afternoon crust out of the corners of my eyes, and reached for the dish of day old peanuts. The bartender Mickey, at least I vaguely remember calling him Mickey the night before, slid a glass of whiskey across the table’s worn face. “I hope everything is going alright Mr. Bradberry.” “Call me Stew,” I snapped while peering into the shallow glass of whiskey. Mickey nodded his head; I threw back the first shot as he stood watching. On cue, he casually slipped behind the bar and returned with the bottle. He directly handed it to me, “Let me know if you need anything else,” he paused, “Stew.” 45 minutes later. Six shots later. I felt a faint buzz, a low humming against my skull. I imagined a dying bee, suffering in my ear, fluttering its broken wings against my eardrum. I poured a seventh shot of whiskey. “Haven’t seen you in a long time, lad.” Uninterested in the conversation of other drunks, I barely gazed up from my glass. “Not going to offer me a proper shake?” The voice, shockingly unfamiliar, resounded above my head. I titled my head. “Excuse me?” An older man, probably in his mid fifties, stood in front of my booth with his hand extended toward my body. He wore a greyish-blue polo, jeans, and battered leather shoes. His car keys hung from his left belt loop. He scratched the grey and brown whiskers on his face, “Stop fooling with me. What? Did I get fatter in the past few years or something?” The man’s breath stunk of cheap alcohol and chewing tobacco. Realizing that my drunk mind might be stuttering on the man’s identity, I gave his hand a firm shake. “Good to see you,” I muttered. Before I could object, the man slid into the booth. He snatched my glass and threw the contents into the back of his throat. “Jesus, you’re still drinking this crap, aren’t you? No wonder they give you the whole damn bottle – nobody wants this cheap booze!” He exploded with roaring laughter. “Anyway John, how’s the wife?” The word wife realigned my focus and sharpened my senses. My name isn’t John. “Sir, I think you have the wrong person.” I stood and shoved the bottle of whiskey toward his side of the table. He lunged forward and grabbed my wrist.

“What the hell is the matter with you Johnny? Don’t recognize your best man?” I clenched my fist but didn’t raise it. His eyes. Desperation in his dark grey eyes stopped me. I pictured my silent one bedroom apartment and broken television. I slowly sat down and leaned back into the booth. “I’m just playing with you man, keeping you sharp. Maria is great, beautiful as ever. Honestly though, it’s hard to recognize you with those extra twenty pounds.” A smile returned to the stranger’s face, “Johnny, you bastard. I’m glad Maria is doing well, but how about the kids? The twins are probably about twelve now, right?” I choked back an awkward laugh as he disregarded my blatant lies. Fourteen years of marriage. No kids. I remember the day Jess found out that her dream of becoming of a mother was just that – a dream. I came home to find her sobbing on the floor of the shower. I did not bother to turn off the frigid water gushing from the showerhead. I fell to my knees, gathered her body in my arms, and I held her while she sobbed. “They still playing ball?” I coughed into my hands and retrieved the bottle of whiskey from my companion, “Yep, they still are. They’re good too. I wouldn’t be surprised if they played ball in college.” He shook his head in wonderment, “That’s great Johnny. Send me their schedule and I’ll be at the next game. Not like I have anyone to go home to these days.” took another swig of the bitter drink, “What do you mean?” He chuckled, “Nothing you don’t already know. With Beth gone and no kids, it’s just me and that beagle. Stupid thing howls all day long, but at least it keeps her side of the bed warm, you know?” I did know. We exchanged laughs, stories, and drinks for the next hour. As the night progressed, I gradually morphed into Johnny. The Johnny with two twin boys who played baseball on Tuesdays and Thursdays with tournaments on the weekend. The Johnny who recently bought that fixer upper on Davidson Drive and created the dream kitchen Maria always wanted. The Johnny who started his own law firm and was opening up a second branch in the city. The Johnny with a wife. The Johnny with a purpose. The drinks flowed with the conversation. My nameless companion and I threw back shots with grins. Our cheeks flushed, our minds dull, our glasses empty. “Johnny,” he muttered behind the mask of a fading laugh, “it’s really good to see you – to see that you’re doing so,” he paused and his smile dissipated. He roped my eyes into a deep stare, and for some reason, I hung onto the look in his eyes – quiet desperation and severe loneliness entangled in his clouded, grey irises. He finished his sentence, “so grand.” I raised my empty glass in salute. He acknowledged my glass, and he averted his attention for a split second to peer at the clock, 10:30 pm, before clinking my glass with his own. “Well Johnny,” he stood and unhooked his keys from his fraying belt loop, “I should be on my way, it’s getting late.” I stood to give my nameless companion, endless conversationalist, and confused acquaintance a firm shake before he left, but by the time I stood he had already started an unsteady meander to the door. “I never caught your name!” Forgetting our story of a past friendship, I shouted after him. He waved his hand back at me, “I’ll see you soon Johnny!” I let him go. I sat down and mindlessly poured myself the last glass of whiskey, and as I drank, I felt the silence close in around me like the bars of a jail cell, locking me in the silence and keeping the noise out. ***

“Help! Help!” A shrieking, bloody cry awoke me from my drunk slumber. I unstuck my cheek from the sticky surface of the booth table and looked around. The bar: empty. The booth: empty. Two bottles of cheap whiskey: empty. I gazed at the clock, which read 10:30 pm, but hadn’t that been hours ago? The cry resounded for a second time. I used my arms to lift myself out of the booth, and I stumbled outside. Mickey saw me flounder down the cement steps and into the parking lot. Raindrops peppered my skin, and a stinging pain rushed over my eye. “Jesus, why didn’t you tell me when you came in? We could have helped you. God dammit, we could have helped him you bastard!” Mickey had retrieved my wrist without my knowledge a few moments before. He dug his short, square nails into my flesh. Mickey lifted his hand; for a second, I thought he might hit me. I whimpered. I cowered. “Jesus, hold still,” he griped. He harshly wiped his thumb across my wet face. When he pulled his hand away, his skin was coated in my crimson blood. “Where,” I whispered, “where did that come from?” Mickey grabbed my face in his rough hands. “You were in a car accident,” I tried breaking his stare, but he held me firmly. “You left your car in the street about an hour ago. You came into the bar with a few scratches, some blood on your head, but I figured it was another of your stumbles. I left it alone, but I guess I shouldn’t have.” Mickey turned his head away and loosened his grip for a slim moment when red and blue lights signaled the arrival of the police. I took the opportunity to run. I ran, or rather, I attempted to run. After a few yards, I found myself on my knees in the middle of the street. The body lay motionless, dead, on the pavement. He wore a greyish-blue polo, jeans, and battered leather shoes. His car keys hung from his left belt loop. He had grey and brown whiskers. “No, no, no, no, no, no.” My heart thundered uncontrollably, the rain grew in power and soaked our bodies in sheets of ice water. I looked into his eyes. However, this time, I did not see his eyes; I saw a reflection of my own eyes in his dead irises. Quiet desperation and severe loneliness. I fell onto his still warm body, and I choked on my silent sobs. What felt like millions of bony hands ripped me off of his body. I kicked. I screamed. I begged them to listen to me. As they dragged me away from his corpse, I saw the entire scene for the first time. I saw my beaten old Ford parked nearly on top of the nameless man’s body. I saw the dark clouded sky and the pellets of rain, like bullets, shooting the dead man. I saw my ex-wife, heaving with sobs on the side of the road. But no, she wasn’t kneeling on the side of the road. She wasn’t here at all. Reality and dream battled each other in my foggy mind. “Mickey!” I screamed for his name with fury. He slowly trudged to the side of the police car. The millions of hands battled my wrists into restraints. “Tell them it’s not true!” I begged, “I was talking to him just a while ago, I never left the bar!” Mickey shook his head and cast his eyes toward the ground. I stopped struggling against the restraints; all of the fight flooded from my body. “Mickey?” My voice, barely audible in the torrent of thunderous rain, pleaded for an answer. “Mr. Bradberry. You weren’t talking to anyone.” He turned his back before I could say another word. The millions of bony hands, the hands of death, shoved me into the back of the police car. I let them manhandle me. I let them beat me and bruise me. At the police station, they shoved me in front of a camera for my mug shot. I stood in humiliation. I glimpsed the picture before I left the room; a quiet desperation and severe loneliness lurked in my grey eyes. Caroline Donovan ‘19 Scholastic Honorable Mention Short Story

Untitled Krupa Patel â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Rusted Spokes Kyla McAvinue â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 Scholastic Regional Silver Key

The Dust Bowl (After Paul Zimmer) I sit with the Dude by the fire Bob Barker announces the guests as they arrive Sinatra sips whiskey with Reagan Hank Williams tunes Cashâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s guitar Billy Joel hums a melody while Ringo sets up his drum set Outside, Bob Ross and Seuss sketch the Texas desert As the sun sets beneath the hills Eastwood twirls his Peacemaker against the pink and blue sky We all gather in the adobe house for dinner Brad Pitt clinks beer bottles with Chris Pratt while Tarantino shares his new script with DiCaprio I wander into the dust bowl The cacti silhouetted against the night sky Littered with stars and the colors of the galaxy The air is cool and dry My boots set in the sand Everything is pure Ryan Alzamora â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Irish Bison (After Sandra Cisneros) Hound-lover or chief who gives aid (depending on which dubious baby-name site you’re willing to trust). Its origin lies in the mythical Ulster king Conchobar mac Nessa, although, in my family, no one came from Northern Ireland or even bore the name. But it’s the sound of the waters of the Niagara, carrying the years and the relatives over the falls. It’s the sound of a brass carnyx calling across the soft, green moors. The Hibernian blood in my family comes from gram. Her name was once O’Heron, it is now Smeader. She is a tough woman, born in Detroit during the War, married in her early twenties, raised two sons, outlived her husband, most of her family and friends, and continues to smoke a pack of Senecas a day. Joan. I was scared of her when I was young. She must have been a “tough love” parent: she would scold us “finish your meatloaf,” “wash your hands,” “no running in the house.” The day after Christmas of 2003, I was four, wearing footie pajamas, and chasing my sisters through her house. I wisely chose not to listen, then slammed into a wall and broke my wrist. She always has our best interest at heart, though. I always like to go over the old, black and white family photos with her and she’ll always take the time to explain to me, for the 26th time, who’s who. “That’s Uncle Fred at the bar at our wedding reception” or “That’s your grandpa Allan when he was young, look at how much hair he had.” No one in our family did anything particularly world-changing, but she always manages to make the people in the photos sound like they were larger than life itself, full of vigor and emotion. I’m sure she was too. I’m sure she still is, but it’s all somewhere buried under the death of her husband, or her parents, or, most recently, her best friend, Sue. At school, I’m Smeader or Shmeader or Smeads or Shmeads. I sometimes wish it was Connor, but I don’t get too bothered by it. Smeader reminds me of the Canadian side of Niagara Falls in late December, when every exposed surface was frozen and we were almost detained returning to the US. It reminds me of driving down Sheridan Drive, past what was once Westwood Country Club but is now a brownfield and car storage. It reminds me of a home that I never grew up in. Oh, Buffalo, ancestral fatherland of the Smeaders, slowly losing them just as it has lost so much else. I wear the titles of Connor and Smeader like passports, reminding me of where I come from, who I come from, and what I have yet to do. Long live the Smeaders. Connor Smeader ‘18

Viking Nick Friedman â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

A Race Against Time Abigail Gilbert â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

December 25, 1914 (After Clement Clarke Moore) During the first year of WWI, soldiers from both sides called a temporary truce on Christmas Day. For one day, soldiers set aside their weapons and prejudice to celebrate with one another in peace. ‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the trench Not a soldier was stirring- not German or French. The rifles and gases were stocked up with care, In the hopes that some armistice soon would be there. On both sides of the trench, soldiers rested in pain, Knowing that Christmas Day they would fight once again. But at first crack of dawn, Germans planned out their schemeA wild suggestion no one had yet dreamed. Soon, on the field, there arose such a clatter, The Allies geared up to see what was the matter. Amidst bomb-riddled ground, broken trees, crumbling boulders, Not a gun, not a tank- just a lone German soldier. “Merry Christmas, my friends!” he called with a smile. “Shall we drink? Shall we dance? Shall we feast for a while?” And what to his wondering eyes did appearThe Allied soldiers, clutching puddings and beer. From both sides of the field, soldiers mingled with glee. “Frohe Weihnaten to you!” “Merry Christmas to me!” As soldiers passed food around and around, Their weapons grew cold, cast away on the ground. They sang songs of joy. They buried their dead. For a day, no more rivals- just brothers instead. For one glorious day, they let up their fight. They drank through the day. They sang through the night. As firelight dwindled, they hugged their goodbyes, Returned to their trenches with tears in their eyes. They all knew that soon, guns would ring out like thunder. But that night, all they heard were songs full of wonder. As they drifted away, the stars fading from sight, One voice cried out: “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” Emily Lugg ‘19

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Here for You, America It was just like any other morning. Almost Fall, the air warm but breezy. Arriving at work, I began the same routine I had gone through for years Combing through news, Then crafting an article for all to read. Just going about my day as any New York journalist would. Just sitting at my desk, Happily typing and sipping coffee, When a harsh jolt caused my drink to spill. Cleaning the mess up, I glance around the office lined with cubicles, And I see wisps of black smoke rising up into the air. The office was in chaos, Everyone rushing to elevators or windows, Fighting to catch a glance of what happened Like animals fighting for food. Smoke was now everywhere, and I spotted a huge, gaping hole in the window. Taking a last glance and confused, I ran to the elevator with them and made it outside safely. I ran and ran and ran. I ran away from the chaos, the smoke, I ran away from the what ifs and unknowns. Then I stopped, watching cars at intersection, And the whole world seemed to come to a standstill, My decision before me, My future facing me. What am I doing? I thought, Impacting the future? Standing for my country? Or saving myself? Changing my course, I raced back to the shouts and wails. Whoever I could feel through the clouds of smoke, I would carry outside.

I lifted bodies and walked, Brought them to the medics. I carried and cared for friends and strangers, Whispered reassuring messages like “I got you,” or “We’re Going To Get Through This.” I rushed in once again, Plunging into the dark realm of smoke, Pulling an injured coworker, Something heavy crushed my leg. Crying out in pain, I crouched, Clutching my knee, Unable to take another step. There’s so many left to rescue, I think. Then everything goes black. I feel a stranger’s arms lift me. As my eyes flutter open, I can see the clouded office space no longer existing, Reeking with black smoke, Like armies of ants frantically escaping from a hole. My breaths uneven and irregular, My eyes close to preclude the burning smoke from touching my eyes. I relax and listen to him say, “I’m here for you, buddy.” Caroline Ho ‘21

Stall Wars “I want to wake up in a stall and fall asleep”

-Frank Sinatra, “Theme from a Stall”, New York

Frank entered the stall with caution. He hastily undid his cummerbund and got down to business—using the ol’ butt spittoon just isn’t the commodity it was in the peaceful era. As he gloriously released the previous night’s cuttlefish dinner, a loud bang raised his hand from the toilet knob to his holster. A bullet whizzed past Frank’s waist, grazing his left hind-cheek.–with only two clean swipes of the buttocks, Frank exited the stall, hiney shiney and blaster drawn. He then walloped and cornered a familiar scarred face into a stall, prepared to brandish justice upon the heckler. Vigorously swirlying the offender, a vested and handsome young man entered the lavatory. With Frank’s attention dazed, the offender lifted his head from the swampy bowl and dashed to the exit, narrowly escaping the even hand of flushery. Frank and the new mysterious man intimidatingly eyed each other from either’s turf of the restroom. “Who the h*ck are you?” inquired Frank, impressed by the man’s Charmin-Ultra secured to his utility belt. “The name’s Hand Solo, kid.” replied Hand, cool as ever. “Now step aside, I’ve got business to do.” Hand suavely unclasped the toilet paper from his utility belt, and made his way into the cleanest stall, disregarding the obvious handicap sign. He proceeded to famously only use one hand throughout his process, never requiring another for tearing or folding. Amazing. Hand exited the stall gratified, colon bare, and probed Frank to explain his business on this treacherous side of the galaxy. Frank bragged of his feats— affiliation with the Intergalactic Stall Patrol, and various epics of total toilet terror concerning the Flushes, a territorial East Side gang prone to violent stall control. Eyes gaping, Hand recounted his own tails of pursuing the Flushes’ rival gang, the Drips, over twenty years prior. Overcome with a fresh and vigorous desire for justice, Hand asked Frank to join him on an adventure of ultimate stall stewardry. Frank agreed without hesitation;— if ever there was a desirable stall-buddy, Hand was that man. The two exited the bathroom, and united aboard the Millennium Phallus, Hand Solo’s large vehicle of restroom justice fit with a clog-proof dual-flush Kohler model K69 toilet. At once, the flying machine took off among the stars with our two heroes aboard. TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO DISCOVER THE FATE OF OUR HEROES, HAND SOLO AND FRANK, ABOARD THE MILLENNIUM PHALLUS. Seth Bale ‘19 Scholastics Honorable Mention Humor

Wish Granted Madison Downey â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 Scholastic Gold Key

Horned Curl Brian Neill â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

Travel Through Time (After Paul Zimmer) I step out of my car onto the yellow brick road I see Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling at the entrance speaking with Ellen. Jimmy Kimmel arrives and escorts Jennifer Lopez to the entrance. We gather inside and dance to the music of Michael Jackson. Whitney Houston sits on the edge of the fountain waiting to sing. Elvis sits next to her with his guitar. Picasso and Dali stand in the kitchen arguing over the best work of art, Bob Marley and Stevie Wonder stand by the piano together discussing their greatest songs. Dinner is prepared and everyone sits down to eat. John Lennon sits by the piano to play a song while everyone eats. Lennonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice, the piano keys, the profound voices of Marley, Wonder, and Jackson are heard in the background. An absurd sound is heard from outside, so everyone walks out the back of the Patio, overlooking the football field and through the arch In the trees. The sun is setting and a plane flies in to land on the football field. The Wright brothers step out of the plane and the crowd applauds. Everyone is in shock to seem that they have arrived, Earhart walks in from the parking lot, excited to meet the Wright brothers, We all gather back into the Patio, and enjoy the rest of the night. Elena Tarte â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Warmth The spot Amber Thorne loved the very most in the world was nestled amidst the dense roots of a tremendous oak tree in the chilly forest adjacent to her backyard. The gargantuan guardian stood tall enough to rival the redwoods – according to Amber, though she’d never actually seen the redwoods in person – with thick, sturdy roots that splayed out from the base of the tree like unkempt hair, messy and aimless. The roots lacked any spectacular character or charm, yet in them Amber found a home that she had cherished and frequented for ten years prior. Young, naïve Amber never intended to unearth such a special place when she took off into the woods after a disappointing first day of kindergarten. She just wanted to run away. The cool forest was unlike anything else she’d ever seen in her five years of existence, and she soon found herself awash in a corner of the universe secluded from the rest of the world. Amber stopped, panting and winded, and leaned into the nook of an inviting tree. She soon settled down comfortably in the cranny and traced shapes and doodles into the loose, permitting ground around her, losing her worries and finding her bliss. Amber grew up between those roots, protective arms that shielded her from the people who just didn’t understand her. After every battle with her parents over her attendance of the homecoming game, she sought refuge by burying her nose in a dystopian novel and resting her head against the tree’s stable, reliable trunk. After every awkward sleepover spent unwillingly watching a horror movie that terrified her, the sweet, melodic birdsongs of the woods soothed her as she napped. Buried beneath that dense, crisp canopy of foliage, nothing could trouble her. She was safe, hidden. Amber had long considered sharing her special space with someone else, but she hadn’t deemed a single person worthy until he came along. She took notice of him freshman year, initially impressed with his sharp wit and soft, charming features. He soon became her saving grace, the sole motivation for her attendance at school. She got this notion into her head - if she could procure him, everything up to now would be worth it, all of the years of standing on the periphery and watching “the high school experience” like it was a movie. If he got with her, she could spend her nights in the woods with him instead of reluctantly accepting pity-invites to sushi dinners where she couldn’t bring herself to tell her “friends” she was allergic to fish. She could simply go to dances with him instead of eating cheese cubes on toothpicks at those perilous pre-parties with the parents and the pictures and the stupid poses. She needed to obtain him before she froze the rest of the world out. She needed him. Two years passed as she admired him from afar, but this year! he fastened his gaze on her, flirting coyly like a fox. He’d eagerly accepted her invitation to come over, and she wasted no time eagerly dragging him into the woods to show him the spot, despite his failure to understand her enthusiasm towards “a tree or something.” The pair made light small talk about school, politics, the impending hurricane. Neither one overtly addressed what would most likely occur between them, yet tension brewed in each of them like water on the brink of bursting into a bubbling boil. “So, which of these is the magic tree?” he quipped, exercising that keen humor Amber adored. “Right here,” she announced, taking a step outside her comfort zone and trying pride on for size. She felt strange - almost naked - in a way she figured was probably good. “So, then what?” he asked, an edge of sexual frustration and disenchantment creeping into his voice. “Was I supposed to bring my bong or something?”

Instinctively, she forced a giggle, working frantically to conceal her discomfort at his assumption. “Um, no. Usually, I just read out here… do some homework… nap.” “So, you’re one of those nature loving types. Tree hugger.” “Something like that.” They tried to fit into her spot, but it became painfully evident that there was only room for one. Amber ended up practically on his lap, but she wasn’t complaining. He laced his fingers through hers, his thumb stroking her hand with impatience. She felt breathless, her heart pounding. The two things she loved most in the world, together. “Amber Thorne,” he mumbled, his lips against her head. “You’re always so quiet in school.” His fingers grazed her wrist. “Who are you?” He slid his hand off her arm. Amber inhaled, completely lost as to what the right answer was. He didn’t give her a chance to respond, anyway. He had barely brushed the surface of her waist when he whispered “I want to get under your skin.” And with that, he pressed his lips to hers hungrily, like a restless child tearing into a long-awaited dinner. Amber felt heat rising within her. His skittish hands groped her quickly, aggressively. They wormed their way under her sweater and grabbed at her bare skin. Her back was exposed to the brisk spring air, but suddenly she was hot. Too hot. It was the kind of inescapable heat that causes one to thrash about on dry August nights. She jerked back unexpectedly, gasping for air and readjusting her top protectively. He jerked up aggressively, agitated. He didn’t understand. “I thought you wanted this,” he spat accusingly. Amber’s mouth went dry. She willed herself to respond, to explain herself, to keep him here. No words came. He stomped away embittered, kicking up leaves in his wake. It wasn’t until he had disappeared from her sight that she sprung to her feet in a vain attempt to catch him, but she was far too late. The shining light at the end of her tunnel had been snuffed out. She flung herself back into the depths of the chilly forest and buried herself in that nook she knew better than anything. She was alone again, and all was right in the world. In that moment, she decided that her life, like her favorite spot, was to be shared with no one. No more smiling awkwardly through conversations she couldn’t contribute to. No more foreign hands snaking under her sweater. No more oppressive heat burning at a fever pitch inside her. She was alone, she was cool, and she was comfortable. *** A few days later, a hurricane swept through the city - ravaged the town and trapped Amber in her house for three whole days. The first day that the sun smiled down upon the ground again, Amber returned to the woods, only to find them decimated by the storm. Her eyes widened at the aftermath of what appeared to be nature’s civil war. The scent of wet, exposed earth hung in the air weakly, as if it could not muster the strength to pervade the woods. Damp, fallen limbs littered the ground, and when she stepped on them they surrendered weakly to the soles of her shoes. Instinctively, her stupefied wander accelerated into a desperate sprint, her feet thudding one after the other absentmindedly as thoughts of the tree filled her mind. To her horror, she arrived at her spot to find the tree uprooted and resting peacefully amidst its fellow fallen brethren.

She felt as if her heart had been ripped from her and cast abjectly onto the ground. Her fortress of comfort, her sanctuary of solitude, her saving grace - gone. No longer could she shut herself out from the rest of the world amidst its stable roots. No longer could she hide in its chilly corner. No longer could she bury herself in its cavernous spaces and enjoy complete seclusion. No longer. Gone. Acting on an unusual surge of sentimentality, Amber approached the overturned base of the tree and, tightly grasping the sturdy trunk for support one last time, hoisted herself up to spend a final moment in her corner of the universe. As she reached her spot, a ray of sunshine fell upon her, bathing her in light. She squinted in the sun’s brilliance, her eyes accustomed only to the dim shadows of the woods. There was heat, too. But a new kind of heat, unlike the fever he put in her jeans. The sunbeams gently grazed her face, sparking within her a soft flame that thawed the icy walls she had built around herself. She felt strange - almost naked - but in a good way, like maybe there was something nicer than the frigid darkness she’d hidden in all her life. Amber felt as if the bitter, frosty apathy that she’d harbored in her heart for years was melting away, and in the sunlight, she awoke from years in a chilly hibernation. No longer could she run away to the woods and shut herself out from the rest of the world. No longer could she hide from her problems in this chilly, lonely corner. No longer could she bury herself in the only place she ever wanted to know or seclude herself from well-meaning people who just wanted to know her. There was a world outside the woods, with lame parties and horror movie sleepovers but also sci-fi films and ice cream shop dates. She’d spent years sequestered away in a corner, clinging to what she knew and pinning her hopes on boys whose heads fit on her cardboard cutout dreams. She’d built herself a chilly home and locked its doors tightly. But there were so many other things and people in the world she had yet to know, that she had refused to know until now. Just past the woods, there were endless opportunities to talk and learn and laugh and fight and ache and cry and love with people she’d written off so prematurely. There were so many chances she could take, as soon as she stepped into the sunlight. A tear rolled down Amber’s cheek. She had found something new and wonderful, something between the fever of heat he had provoked and the frosty chill of the woods. She had found warmth. Katherine Alberta ‘19 Scholastic Gold Key/American Voices Nominee Short Story

Age Theresa Chua â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

Ray Bans Vanity steps out of the steam-filled shower with a strut, like that of a male peacock during mating season. He fixes his hair with product and a comb, leaving it perfectly caked with grease. Looking himself over in the mirror leaves him boosted, puffy like a freshly groomed poodle. He dresses in a tightly-fitted navy suit with brown shoes and belt and a silver watch. He locks his door behind him and flaunts over to his Audi S5 parked just before the drive reaches his cherry garage doors. The front faĂ§ade of his home is gorgeous, with ornately crafted shutters and near impeccable landscaping and shrubbery. He steps down into his sports saloon, and as the big V8 roars to life, he places his Ray Bans on the bridge of his nose where they rest on the way to work. Francis Fanning â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

666 Taylor Gerard â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 Scholastic Silver Key

Reconnaissance (After Joseph Heller) The senior class was relishing its last year at Archmere Academy. They were on the cusp of adulthood, ready to take on new opportunities with four years of experience behind them. Their prepubescent freshman selves had been replaced with experienced, battle-hardened senior figures who were ready to make an indelible mark on the school. The Archmere administration watched their growth with increasing horror. “They are simply much too young to be trusted to do anything independently!” screeched Mr. Jordan as he gazed in aversion at the senior class. “Exactly! Didn’t you see the antics of last year’s senior class? All teenagers are the same, they’re bound to stage a school-wide rebellion that will threaten the repressive regime of our faculty dictatorship!” Mr. Nowaczyk chimed in. “But how are we to stop this epidemic?” asked the teachers, each donning their own terrified expression at the thought of giving these crazed teenagers an ounce of unrestricted freedom. “The only possible solution we have,” Mr. Nowaczyk answered grimly. “We keep them in check at all times and all places. There can’t be a moment in time where they are unsupervised on school grounds. Any student-led activity is to be severely scrutinized and analyzed until all faculty members deem it appropriate. Of course, if we believe it is necessary we will veto any and all events.” “Let’s get started right away. We don’t have any time to lose!” exclaimed Father Zagarella. “Absolutely. The first order of business is the senior tailgate. This is their first line of attack, almost comparable to a battle call. The problem is, getting rid of this activity will surely provoke a premature rebellion. We have to handle it with finesse. If we assign teachers to supervise this event, we can effectively render it harmless,” Mr. Jordan declared authoritatively, glad to finally get down to business. “Since we’re on the topic of student-council events, we should talk about the school dances as well,” Mr. Donnelly piped up. “Everyone knows these dances are the prime time for the senior class to plot ideas with their peers and unleash their crazy senior syndrome throughout the student body. We have to minimize contact between the contaminant and the victims. I propose we combine the annual MORP dance with the lackluster homecoming. This way, the most potent and anticipated senior event can be neutralized.” “You don’t think this might cause mutual discontent among the senior class at changing such a time-honored tradition?” Mrs. Thomas asked timidly. “Of course not,” Mr. Nowaczyk stated confidently. “Anyways, their opinions don’t matter anyway. We have a school to run after all and it’s in their best interest. I think we should continue to obliterate these traditions. Let’s move on to Halloween.” Mrs. Souza’s eyes lit up, “Oh yes I agree! These costumes are a direct violation of the Student dress code and I for one have always wanted to get rid of such a frivolous practice.” “Let’s not forget the clubs as well!” Mr. Nowaczyk crowed, intent on extinguishing all the points of attack on the other side. He turned his piercing eyes on the cowering teachers, seeking out one figure in particular. “MR. JOHNSON.”

His voice boomed throughout the enraptured crowd as the sea parted to reveal a lone figure. Mr. Nowaczyk regarded Mr. Johnson with a severe gaze. “I want you to censor all material within the video announcements. ANYTHING created from the student body, senior class or not is to be restricted and vetoed. I want the students to be watching a carbon copy of the announcements they get sent every morning, just read out loud.” Mr. Johnson nodded dutifully before stumbling back in line with the rest of the teachers. Mr. Jordan cleared his throat and stretched. “I believe this is sufficient progress for today. Let’s reconvene next week to discuss further restrictions. We have yet to fight the hardest battle yet; the holiday season poses the biggest threat. However, we are on the road to victory, people. We just gotta keep trekking. Meeting adjourned!” Mr. Nowaczyk nodded solemnly. “Sometimes we have to make hard decisions for the betterment of everyone. I hope the senior class considers the sacrifices we are making.” Grace Zhang ‘18

Abstract Figure Nicki Kelly â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

The Year I Was Born President Kennedy was staring down Cuba. It was the year of the tiger, and the Pope dissed Fidel. Wilt scored a 100. Taco Bell and Wal-Mart were born too. Adolf Eichmann was hanged in an Israel jail. Norma Jean overdosed on barbiturates in LA. And my parents somehow believed the world was a place to raise children in Aston Pennsylvania, a small rancher with hard wood floors, a backyard with a creaky swing set and patches of brown. They were young, then, scrambling to make ends meet, five mouths to feed and the world upside down. It was the sixties. Watergate and gas rationing still a decade away. In their small corner of the keystone state they were focused on smaller things, my mother dressing her handicapped daughter in the early morning bedroom light, my father driving to the shipyard in Chester, listening to the radio, Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall.” Mr. John Jordan ‘80

For the Romantics “There are two kinds of people in this world: Hopeless Romantics, and Realists,” deadpans Lily Collin’s character, Sam Borgens, in the 2012 romantic comedy Stuck in Love. I sit at my desk, face illuminated by the muted tones of the movie’s backdrop, as I ponder over her dichotomous characterization of humanity. Almost immediately, I can picture my mother’s face floating in Sam’s category of a “realist”; she’s cultivated a philosophy based solely on reason and logic that relies on the comfort of hard numbers and precise data. In fact, it’s not uncommon for her to scoff at movies like Stuck in Love, her head shaking in disbelief—and probably a good measure of derision—at the unrealistic norms and saccharine endings that occupy the genre of romantic comedy. “People don’t talk, act, or think the way they do in those movies!” she exclaims. “It’s just not realistic.” To the chagrin of my mother, I seem to have developed a taste for the impractical. Since my 10-year-old self first witnessed Hilary Duff waltz onto screen in her white ball gown and steal the heart of her teenage prince in A Cinderella Story, I have developed a whirlwind obsession with romantic comedies that hasn’t stopped since. On the rare occasion my mother joins me to view a romantic comedy, she will inevitably find two main points of criticism. The crux of the problem, she will argue vehemently, is the improbability of such a large volume of coincidences that characterize such movies. She rolls her eyes when Harry just happens to find Sally on the same cross country flight five years after their first meeting, and scoffs derisively when Edward Lewis just happens to meet Vivian Ward on his drive down Hollywood Boulevard immediately after breaking up with his former girlfriend. To her, these chance encounters remain nothing more than a screenwriter’s lazy attempt at wrapping up an unbelievable storyline to arrive at the inevitable happy ending. Along the same lines of her tirade on the laziness of romantic comedies, my mother has always found the plot of a romantic comedy predictable and repetitive. “Why would you ever want to watch something if you already knew what was going to happen?” My mother asks, her face adorned with an amused expression that simultaneously reveals her curiosity and confusion. Ironically, even with her analytical nature, she has yet to work out a logical explanation for this anomaly. I will be the first to admit that my mother’s arguments are not unfounded. Yet, perhaps ironically, I have realized that the very flaws that repel my mother are the sole reason I have come to enjoy this particular genre. I watch to see the two star-crossed lovers reunite at a random coffee shop 10 years later, striking up a conversation as if no time has gone by. I watch to feel the giddy excitement before The Kiss, still just as enraptured by the first dramatic declaration of love as I am of the thirty seventh reenactment in another movie. Somewhat ironically, growing up in a very practical, realistic family predominantly oriented in the STEM field has cultivated in me a taste for the imaginative. I have found that my curiosity in charting the odd path that brings two people together is not much different than my mother’s fascination with the intricacies of the carbon molecules that characterize our universe. There isn’t always a logical explanation for the random coincidences or the inevitable happy endings that characterize a romantic comedy, but I have come to realize that within these movies, pure logic doesn’t matter. A lighthearted fantasy in the mundane, these movies provide a breath of fresh air from the rigidly rational environment that has surrounded me since birth. Watching these iconic romantic comedies, I have finally learned to forgo the typical cause and effect analysis of life and instead color outside of the lines, fearlessly embracing the fantastic realm that is my imagination. Grace Zhang ‘18

Self Portrait Brian Carbajal â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

Sunken Memory On USS Arizona In Pearl Harbor, Early Morning on December 7, 1941 A pleasant day, palms trees swaying in the breeze I watch Tommy on the far side of the deck I did not see it coming. It was so loud, Tommy! One moment he was there, now he’s gone I smell burning oil, hear screeching screams, I don’t know what happened to Tommy, Loud booms cover the sky Ryan help me! I follow his wailing voice There he is, both legs blown apart Another boom, starboard Tommy we have to jump off this I say Just leave me, I don’t want to live I ignore him and pick him up, I run to the nearest side and jump, Tommy in my arms Struggling to stay afloat, I tug on Tommy’s sleeve Almost there I say I look back at Tommy, he looks pale I keep tugging until I feel the sand on my feet I look at Tommy desperate Hey Tommy, Tommy wake up, stay with me Tears streaming down my face as I look around helplessly Planes all around, some crashing into the ships Ryan…I love you Tommy says, he reaches up at my face Tommy falls back, Ryan sees that he has lost his best friend Ryan bends over Tommy, weeping Kevin Jasani ‘18

Silo Riley Beck â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18 Scholastic Gold Key

Untitled Lauren Wilson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

LIV-ing the American Dream (After Sandra Cisneros) In English my name means “Olive-Tree”, symbol of fruitfulness, of beauty, of dignity. In Latin it is a symbol of peace. It’s the sun-shaped mirror in my parents’ room, the color peach with baby blue accents, the continuous singing of birds outside a window on a warm spring morning. It was my grandmother “Nonna Bibbia’s” name and now it is mine, Livia, now evolved into Olivia. She spends her days in the blazing sun planting peonies, watering fig trees, snipping basil bushes, pruning lilac trees, and admiring her huge magnolia tree. She fills every kitchen table with spaghetti, chicken cutlets, homemade pizza, and frittata every night. She pronounces “habitat” as “habitash” and “never mind” as “leva mind” and “dry hair” as “drive hair” and “Vacuum” as “Wacuum”. Livia. An independent, hard-working, and determined role model who moved to America when she was 19. She moved from San Sossio, Baronia, Avellino mountains to Newark, New Jersey. She worked to support her husband and three kids as a cashier at ShopRite every day. Her eldest daughter, my mother, taught her English in their cramped kitchen as she learned it at the same time at Columbia Elementary School. Now 75 years old, she works three to four days a week at Winterthur Garden Café as a cashier. And the story goes when “Nonno Roger”, my grandfather, came home from his first trip to America when he was 26, his mom told him he had to bring 20€ to the mother of two beautiful daughters in the next town over. When he got to their house as he walked in, my grandmother, 19 at the time, was washing the floors and didn’t even look up as he walked in. After he asked her parents for permission to see their daughter they immediately became inseparable and spent everyday together. He lived in the town at the tip of the mountain, Trevico, and she lived in the town halfway down the mountain. Before moving to America together, they would spend their days running up and down the mountain from Trevico to San Sossio. Livia. At school I am “Liv” or on the field “BALDI”. I have come to love my nicknames, sometimes more than my own name. Hearing “Olivia” has become a rarity. Sometimes I don’t even respond to it. I wish I was just called “Liv”, it fits me more: short, to the point. Sounds happier when people yell it on a field or in the hallways. But I will always be honored to be named after that floor washing, ShopRite cashier, and pasta-making, Italian grandmother. I am proud to be Olivia. Olivia Baldi ‘18

Extraordinarily Heroic

“And then I jumped out of the Vought F4U, with my rifle, of course, and parachuted to the ground. By the time I touched the ground I had taken out fifteen Nazis,” I said, leaning casually on the bar. I had elected not to sit on the bar stool because it’s highly unmanly to do such a thing. The woman I had been talking to had a look of awe on her face. “Oh wow, really?” she said. She smiled, clearly amazed at my heroic actions. But then I noticed she was missing a tooth. I almost bolted, but decided that she deserved to hear the rest of the story. “Oh yes, but that’s not even the most dangerous part, hon-“ I said, cutting myself off before I could call her and her missing tooth “honey”. I tried to restrain myself from smiling, hoping that she would reflect my face and stop smiling. I coughed to try to make it seem like that was why I had stopped talking. “Anyways, a fleet of Nazi tanks was headed right for me so I had to find cover before they could blow me up. Unfortunately, the only cover was inside a small Nazi-occupied cabin, so I had to take them all out before the tanks got there,” I said, mentally willing her to stop smiling. “How many were there?” she asked. I noticed the bartender glancing over towards me. I decided to speak a little louder, for his benefit. “There were oh, ten men or so in the cabin. I took them out before the tanks got near me and got on one of their uniforms so the Nazis in the tank would think I was one of them.” “How did you take them all out so quickly?” the bartender asked. I felt my eyebrow twitch at his rudeness. It’s one thing to listen to my heroic actions, it’s another to ask questions and barge into the conversation. However, I felt waves of skepticism coming off of him, so I decided to quench his thirst for answers. “Tanks don’t actually move that fast. Probably ten miles and hour, or 16.1 kilometers per hour. And I spotted them quite far out, as I had an eagle eye view as I jumped from the Vought F4U,” I replied, sure my answer had satisfied him. He nodded, then left to attend to other customers. I felt my other eyebrow twitch in annoyance. What kind of audacity did this bartender possess to interrupt a conversation, then leave it right after his rude question was answered? “So then you were undercover as a Nazi?” she asked incredulously. I could almost see the mental gears in her brain trying to process the true depth of my heroic actions. “Yes, I stayed undercover until I was eventually found out. But, I believe that’s a story for another day, friend,” I said, tipping my stylish hat at her. She smiled and waved goodbye to me. I felt a slight shiver go through my body. I left without paying, as well. If that bartender didn’t appreciate my story, then he didn’t deserve my money! I walked home since taking public transportation made me feel like a plebeian. I tried my hardest to whistle my favorite song, but couldn’t get the melody quite right. It sounded more like “Big Iron” rather than “Way Back Home.” When I reached my door, I dropped my keys on the ground, slammed my forehead on the doorknob leaning down, all in front of the old man who lived next to me. I hissed at him under my breath, and he retreated into his house. I entered my own abode and took off my shoes. “Big brother!” my annoying younger brother shouted. I say “younger” and not “little” brother because he is a mountain of a man. With his tall, muscular body and eagle eyes, he’s a true force to be reckoned with. He was standing right outside the door, no doubt having heard me slam my head on the doorknob. “Hello, Nathan,” I said, staring at his shirt instead of his grin. He’s missing one of his front teeth (it was punched out, as featured in a rather enthralling chapter in the epic of his heroic life), which bothers me for reasons unknown. It should make me happy, since it’s the one blemish on his All-American look, but instead I hate that he’s missing a tooth.

“How was your day?” he asked. He’s been sitting around, in his uniform practically all the time, ever since the war ended. He even wears that stupid little cap that doesn’t fit his large head. “Good. Until the girl I was talking to revealed that she was missing a tooth,” I replied, trying to retreat upstairs. He reached toward his own mouth. “Is that a bad thing?” he asked. I sighed. I decided I needed to eat before I could tackle that question. I grabbed a piece of bread and began to eat it. I looked up and noticed him looking into the mirror, smiling at himself. “No, it was too much like talking to you for my romantic taste, however,” I answered, sparing him the two seconds of self-doubt he would experience before he got over my comment. I poured myself some red wine and ripped a piece of the bread off to stuff it in my mouth. He grew bored of talking to me and turned on the radio. Bing Crosby came on the radio and he started to sing along. He attempted to do a jig, but when he does it it’s more like hopping up and down rather than the uncomplicated dance move he’s trying to do. I snuck upstairs before he could ask me to join him. I sat down at my writer’s desk and looked through photos and news clippings I had collected from the newspapers as inspiration for my writings. After about a half an hour of solid work, my brother came barreling up the stairs. “John, I know you already went out today, but I was wondering if you wanted to come back out with me. One of my friends from my troop is in town, and he rang me up to ask if I wanted to go for drinks.” “I’m good, Nathan, I’m in the middle of completing the research I need to do for my war drama,” I replied. “Please, John. He asked for you to come along. He read your novel after I told him to and he loved it.” The appreciation of my talents swayed me. I’ll admit I’m not usually that shallow, but I also didn’t want to hear Nathan beg me to go. It’s unbecoming of a man of his stature. “Where is it?” I said, resignedly, though inside I was bursting with love for his war pal and his admiration for me. “Where’s what?” “The place you are going to get drinks.” “Oh. Market,” he responded. Now I see why he wanted me to go. He didn’t know how to get to Market Street. A true man he was, twenty three and he didn’t know how to navigate around town. “I’ll go, but I’m only staying for a little, so make sure you take heed of how we get there,” I said. “Gosh, thanks John! I’ll go get changed and we can go!” he ran to his own room. I sighed. Nathan’s war buddies were almost as annoying as he was. If I had to hear one more story about the Vought F4U that crashed right next to his friend Robert or the time his friend William spent as a spy I was going to politely change the subject and see if these men can talk about anything other than explosions and espionage. I heard Nathan barrel back down the stairs. “Ready?” he yelled up. I hope the neighbors couldn’t hear him. I grabbed my stylish hat and walked down the stairs. “So which heroic action will we be hearing again?” I asked him, keeping up a grumpy persona. “He’s the one that gunned down some Nazis while parachuting out of his fighter plane,” Nathan answered. I nodded. I will admit, I found that action extraordinarily heroic. Gillen Curren ‘18

The Strike on the Pike: A Tale of Surviving Mild Adversity Against Underwhelming Odds The Strike on the Pike: A Tale of Surviving Mild Adversity Against Underwhelming Odds Coaches Field 2015, site of the Annual Delaware River Invitational Flag Football Championship Series of Claymont Below is a recollection of a magical day when the art of human movement intersected with mathematical precision and literary genius. It was a cold day that December afternoon, the kind of day that makes a young man yearn for chunky soup and Goldfish. If these young men weren’t playing football, they would have been stocking warm peat for the winter. However, that day one goal stood in front of these 14-16 men (depending on detention rolls)-- the Gilded Wrench and Square, the very tools used to construct Archmere Academy and the trophy for the team that survived the grueling tournament these teams endured. The Faculty team, headed by Prince Chominski and “The Don,” struggled to get the offense going for most of the day. Their bodies, aged by years of teaching and lunch duty, were holding up but showed the wear. Their challengers, “Got Flags,” commanded the field much of the afternoon with a strong passing game and a horizontal running game that posed challenging vectors for the faculty team. Late in the game with a seven-point lead and victory all but assured, “Got Flags” gained possession of the ball with less than a minute to play. Victory was in their grasp. Only an act of madness or a miracle could save the Faculty now. It was now that the fan of the Faculty hung his head and began packing up his picnic blankets away in order to begin the long march home only to turn his head in sudden curiosity at an odd sound. A loud “BINGO!” was heard from the Faculty defense-- five random numbers gained? An interception? How could that be? The “Got Flags” needed only run the ball two times to end the game as well as the Faculty dreams of re-gaining the Gilded Wrench and Square. In the hubris of youth, they chose to throw the ball against the one skill the Faculty team possessed-- wisdom. The faculty defense had seemingly planned for this, calling for the “Waterloo Cover 5-- Drop Gettysburg.” As the ball floated long into the center of the field, a young faculty member trying to earn his stripes and a chance to be invited to the faculty Christmas dinner jumped in front of the receiver and intercepted the ball. Bardeer. A name that will forever haunt the “Got Flaggers.” He stole the ball, and with a zig and a zag and a loop, he returned it for a touchdown, a moment that reawoke the passions of the fan who had endured such wretched conditions to cheer for the Faculty. A stunning development left the student team shocked and mortalized. Down one point, the Faculty chose the narrow path and went for two; they were going to win in regular time or suffer for the longtime. The Prince broke the huddle and brought the team to the line. Flash Lightening set behind him and Bardeer to the left, lots of people everywhere else, hungry. All eyes were on the Prince, expecting the hand-off to Flash for the dive up the middle.

Prince silenced the crowd of five and shouted gestures of cadence encouraging the snap. the snapped ball fell into his hands and he lurched forward-- a run! How could he… Wait! No! At the last second, as 5 students grasped at his flags, he flung the ball deep into the heart of the defense and the end-zone. As the ball floated over the heads of the students, they could only look with shock as the ball flew from the Prince’s hand. Just as the ball seemed headed for nowhere, out of nowhere appeared one man: half French, half proletariat, half winner. Bardeer. He grasped the ball and the Faculty grasped the Gilded Wrench and Square Trophy once again. Some say Philly Pike stopped at the moment the ball was caught, but no one knows for sure. What we do know is that from that day forward Claymont has undergone an economic transformation that has restored the hopes of many and begun a turnaround long awaited by those who claim Philly Pike as their lifeline. Indeed, this was the “STRIKE ON THE PIKE.” If you are around on a Friday night, look for a man sitting on the hood of a Chevy Stock Super Eight with “Bound for Glory” written on the side in red, white, and blue flash paint, Jimmy the Saint. Some say he can be found on dry, humid summer nights. He knows the story. Mr. Robert Nowaczyk

My Sea of Dreams (After Paul Zimmer) Sunrise behind us, waves crashing below us, Stone Harbor, New Jersey. Quinn XCII plays in the background, Chelsea Cutler joins in, Chance the Rapper makes the headline, All have such individual and distinct voices Yet together, create something greater. Their voices and rhythms together create a tropical, upbeat vibe In the morning. The crowd is not quiet, the guests are roaring with laughter. Paul rudd, Kristen Wiig, Kevin Hart. All worries and troubles are left behind. This deck is a happy place. A calm place. Full of laughter. Mena, Chris, Christian Baldi are the first to arrive, Followed by Meredith Wolak. Family that has always been by my side Now stands with me in my happiest place. Every head turns at once. They enter the room. The Olympians. The athletes. Michael Phelps, Taylor Cummings, Joel Embiid. The animals of our generation. They control the pool, field, court. Everyone is taken aback that they are here. They are no longer just an idea, they are real people. My youth stands in the back corner. Niall Horan and Harry Styles skateboarding around. Miley Cyrus, as Hannah Montana obviously, adjusts her wig. Dylan Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien and Zac Efron are starting a small food fight in the back. Raven Symone sees the future.

Anne and Otto Frank stand before a line of intrigued guests Symbols of strength. Their smiles mask their sadness. Their friendly aura creates a homely atmosphere. The sun finally sets. The upbeat music decreases. Brian Sella and Passenger begin to sing. Soft, sleeping music begins. A perfect day ends with the sun. Olivia Baldi â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Whistleview Nikoletta Testa â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Hoornkill Avenue We liked to play at the end of the street - the section of the road protected from the new, glossy asphalt. The rough, individually brazed stones brutalized and strengthened the thin, baby skin on the soles of our soft, baby feet. Our feet. Tiny toes and tiny nails, painted with a bubble gum pink nail polish accompanied by fearless, bare skin attacked the flat ground with ferocity. Our feet. Glistening, white, pure skin morphed into a chalky black dust as the sun fell from its apex in the summer sky. Our mothers and fathers autographed the roads with their bare soles long before our footprints smudged their memories. Hoornkill Avenue; it marked the home of three children born into a destiny of adventure and joy along the hills and edges of the street. They challenged their neighbors to baseball games and foot races; their feet were bare of course. They fell into the gentle embraces of their imaginations as they, children themselves in age and mindset, forged a path for their future children. Three children created a world on a street. Their world, Hoornkill Avenue, offered the necessities for adventure and love in a child’s mind. However, the three children fell into the rhythm of daily growth, and they soon outgrew their rusty bikes and short scooters, and they exchanged basketballs for textbooks. They learned to tie their shoes and protect the soft, supple soles of their feet with wool socks and Chuck Taylors. The world, similar to the sharp and ragged rocks of the unpaved section of the street, introduced them to the concepts of time, money, greed, failure – concepts conditioned to crush children’s dreams. The unsympathetic hand of the universe fastened their constricting, scratchy seatbelts and twisted the golden, chipped lock of the carport door. As a child, the door offered an invitation into a magical world characterized by fraying basketball nets and fading flashlights. As protégés of the hurdles of the external world, the familiar carport door offered nothing more than interference. Eventually, the children locked the carport door with their own moisturized hands and turned their backs on the magical world. They fell into cradles of silence and responsibility in their bedrooms instead. However, one day, from the confines of their four walls of plaster and artificial sun, they heard the rumble of trucks and the slippery slap of new asphalt fall onto their road – their street. For a moment, they leaned closer to the window pane and pressed their sweaty cheeks against the warm pane of the windows, and they watched in simple dissatisfaction as the new asphalt slowly camouflaged their footprints and edited their imprints out of the avenue. Reborn as slaves to an expectant outside world, they refused to indulge in frivolous memories, and they refocused their minds. As the trucks rolled away, they drug a new era in their wake. Years flew by like afternoon baseball games, and the house that kissed the body of Hoornkill Avenue emptied its bedrooms and closets. It hopefully whispered goodbye to the pioneers of its land. *** We rubbed our bare toes against the smooth, warm paved road of Hoornkill Avenue. Boiling with giggles, we raced each other to the end of the street. We admired the long, spidery cracks in the deformed pavement that enclosed the history of Hoornkill. The sun seemed to fall into a rhythm with our games and songs; it dipped low in the sky long enough for us to run to the last base, shoot the final free-throw, and hum the ending note. We retreated to the carport and settled on the laps of our mothers and fathers. They passed us dim flashlights and we busted through the carport door – it was not locked. Caroline Donovan ‘19

Untitled Jocelyn Philips â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

To Melvin H. Smallville 1906-1977 An Open Letter To Melvin H Smallridge, 1906-1977 My dearest Melvin H. Smallridge, My mother always told me that it was rude to ask a stranger for a favor. I hope you don’t agree with her. I’ve met you only three times, if you can even call it a meeting. The very first time I ever met you I tripped over your headstone. I felt terrible about this, especially since my grandmother once said that it brought the soul bad luck if you stepped on its grave. I cried for you on the car ride back to the hotel. I hope you can forgive me. On the day I first met you, my family spent the afternoon wandering around your field, looking for our old relatives. My grandfather called it the perfect Irondequoit summer day: balmy and blue and mild, a far cry from the sticky hell we’d left 400 miles south. And it really was beautiful, with the little fountain running and the purple asters in bloom. But as my grandfather pointed out names and family histories, my mind kept turning back to you. Mel, who are you? Later that summer, I spent a day trying to figure that out for myself, but the only information I could find was an engagement announcement from 1949 and a map showing where you’re buried today. I’ve imagined you plenty of different ways. Sometimes you’re a librarian who taught history at the local high school and went to the football game every weekend, even after you retired. Sometimes you’re a scientist with a passion for the cello. Sometimes you build houses, and sometimes you paint murals, and sometimes you write, just like me. But I always like to imagine that you married that girl you got engaged to in 1949 and became a grandfather some years down the road. I imagine you’re the type of grandpa who tells vaguely inappropriate jokes and carries candies in his pockets and makes up wonderful fairy tales in which your grandkids save the day. It is your favorite job of all. I think you’d get along very well with our Shirley. She always told me that being a grandmother was the best thing she’d ever done. I met you for the second time a day later, a day just as beautiful as the first. But this time I couldn’t appreciate it. I had hoped for torrents and wailing winds and roaring thunder; I wanted the world to mourn with me. I couldn’t stomach watching the men hollow out the hole next to you where she would go, so instead I silently cursed the cloudless sky. I think we stepped on you again that day. In fact, I think my grandfather sat right on top of you. You’ll have to forgive him, if you don’t mind; it’s just where they pitched the canopy. God, Mel, we were all a wreck that day. The priest had to pause halfway through his sermon to let my sister cry. My poor mother barely made it through the prayer she had practiced over and over in the mirror at home. And none of us knew what to do about my baby cousin, who kept asking where her grandma was.

How do you tell the three year old who cries every time her cousins leave the room that she will never see her grandma again, especially when you can barely come to terms with it yourself? Mel, I swear I’m not a liar, but sometimes it’s necessary. So we told little Violet that Grandma had moved far away, to a nice little place called Heaven Street. We won’t visit her for a very long time. And I know it’s childish, but that’s how I like to imagine it; peaceful streets with clean cottages and picket fences, like the ones on Lake Ontario, where God rests in the white linen sheets hanging out to dry in the sun. In this little world I imagine you met her just after you noticed a light on in the house next door, when you answered your ringing doorbell to a petite, pretty woman sporting silver hoop earrings and carrying a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches. Mel, this is Shirley, all fiery five-foot-two of her. She loves animals and small children and swearing and making conversation with strangers. She loves a good meal, but her cooking expertise begins and ends at grilled cheese. She’s never owned a potted plant for more than a month without accidentally killing it. She loved her job as a kindergarten teacher, but much prefers being a full-time grandmother. She is my third parent and my first friend and the woman who taught me everything I’d ever need to know. I saw you both for the last time a few days later, the last time I will see you both for quite a long time. I hoped that by then you’d gotten to know each other better, swapping stories about each other’s grandkids over cups of instant coffee. I wished you both one last goodbye before we headed south for good. Now here comes that favor I mentioned before. Take good care of her, and the piece of myself I left in that field in Irondequoit. Wish the rest of us luck as we figure out what life is without her. And thank you for listening and for giving me a solid patch of ground to stand on while the rest of my world fell apart. Cheers, Mel. Send all my love to my grandma. Emily Lugg ‘19 Scholastic Honorable Mention Personal Essay

Tapestry 2018 Editor Natasha Gengler ’18 Assistant Editors Emily Lugg ’19 Ryan Nowaczyk ’18 Anneliese Parenti ’19 Editorial Staff Brian Carbajal ’21 Riley DeBaecke ’19 Lea Harlev ’18 Alexis Rendel ’21 Layout Anneliese Parenti ’19 Faculty Advisor Mr. Stephen Klinge Thank you to… Ms. Jody Hoffman and the Art Department Mr. John Jordan and the Creative Writing Class …and all who submitted work to Tapestry!