Vol. IV, 2015
TRIVIUM:
Journeys
Trivium: Journeys is the fourth volume of the literary art magazine of Indian Creek Upper School 1130 Anne Chambers Way Crowsville, MD 21032 Phone: 410-849-5151 Fax: 410-841-2623 Email: trivium@indiancreekschool.org www.indiancreekschool.org View Trivium online at www.issuu.com/IndianCreekSchoolLitMag or scan the code
The Mission of the Trivium Literary Magazine is to uphold the spirit of the liberal arts through creativity and self-expression by providing a forum for all voices to be heard. Trivium was founded to provide a medium for future Leonardo Da Vincis, Ansel Adamses, Emily Dickinsons, Carl Sagans, John Lockes, and. . . yes, even future Niccolo Machiavellis and Thomas Hobbeses.
1 Trivium: Journeys 2015
Table of Contents Wave After Wave Juhi Narula Beginning and Ending Hilary Briles My Mother Speaks Anonymous For Molly Robin Depaolis Still Life John Tahsuda IV That Day Whitney Nelson Lightning Chelsea Cote The Graveyard Book Zoe Morin Hair Ilana Abraham Self Portrait Lizzie Hornick Drowning in Water Sarah O’Connor Hunter Rachael Hughen Psychological Warfare Jordan McDonald Sacrificial Reflection Jordan McDonald Stitched Up Jocelyn Auld Mama, I Made It Troy Williams Houses Have Their Secrets Kyle Bruther Man is Not the Lord of Beings John Tahsuda Rushing, Running Lindsey Ray Approaching the Finish Line Rachael Hughen Pillow Book Jocelyn Auld Underwater Paradise Lizzie Hornick Writing a Poem for Homework Erica Argilan The New Mexico Trilogy Bryton Smith Native Medallion Nick Stroup Platonic Encounter Bryton Smith Spiraling Kyle Bruther An Infinite Space Lizzie Hornick Mage of the Moors Alaina Clemence Garden Scene Charles “Chip” D. Voros Dedication Phyllis Everette Staff Page Colophon
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2015 Trivium: Journeys 2
Wave After Wave Juhi Narula
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
against the shore and then recede back into the ocean. The sound of Sam’s laughter fills my head.
At least he had the best of times, but for me? Well, my life decided to start with the worst and stop there.
“You have to jump right before the wave comes, C.” Sam and I were swimming in the ocean, seeing who could jump the highest wave. I had lost that round when a wave overcame me and dragged me to the edge of the ocean.
–Charles Dickens.
“Chloe, there’s been an accident,” my mom told me on the phone. That one sentence was how my day had shifted from great to devastating. Now, I’m standing in front of a large, gray and black building that looks “You’re one to talk. If I recall correctly, the score is five awfully depressing. I take a deep breath and force to three. Now, remind me, who has five?” I gave my myself to enter the concrete structure. I walk reluctantly brother a gloating smirk, and we continued playing. towards the counter and tell my name to a woman dressed in all white. She points to a door numbered 318 I shake my head to push the memory out. God, I was with her index finger. I stand outside the door, closing such a dumbass. How could I expect that he would my eyes, always be here? wishing that I took his “How could I expect that he would always be there? Ipresence wouldn’t for have to see granted and look I took his presence for granted and look where that where that got what’s inside. I slowly open me? got me.” the door, and my heart He was just starts beating three times faster than it had before. My going to meet his friends at a party. Some moron knees lock, and I grasp the door knob to steady myself. stopped looking at the road for one second, one I stare at my brother, lying on the bed, his eyes closed, second. Yet, Sam was the one who got punished. Sam with the sound of the heart monitor beating slowly in had to suffer from someone else’s wrongdoing. He the background. hasn’t done anything to deserve to be lying in a hospital bed. My stomach starts to feel queasy, and it seems like every action I make is in slow motion. I sit down on the I wish Sam was still at home, watching TV or on his chair furthest from the hospital bed. I quickly direct my laptop. He was gone for a while. I should have made eyes to a spot where I have no sight of my brother. If I sure he was alright; that he was safe. I wish it had been see even a glimpse of Sam, I just know I will lose me in that car. consciousness. Beep, beep, beep; the beeps continue on an endless loop. I sprint out of the room. The sound of My whole life, Sam has been there. He listens when I the monitor is too horrible; I can’t bare it. need someone to listen. He calls me out when I’m being a brat and tells me to take it down a notch. He makes “Are you okay, Honey? Oh, what kind of question is me laugh when I’m upset. What if he doesn’t survive? that? Of course you’re not,” my mom rambles as she Who will stick by my side during awkward family rushes up to me from the waiting room. reunions? Who will I admire? “I just need some air.” Saying what has happened out loud would be way too difficult. I run out of the hospital and don’t stop. I don’t care where I go, as long as it is as far away from room 318 as possible. I can still hear the beeping of the heart monitor. Tears start pouring down my face like a rain storm. I start to feel the ground change texture, and I realize I’m running on sand. The beach is at least a mile away from the hospital. I walk towards the ocean and stop when I’m around ten feet away from the roaring waves. I walk slowly on the damp sand, watching the waves crash 3 Trivium: Journeys 2015
I attempt to brush these thoughts out of my mind. Happy thoughts... think happy thoughts. He’ll wake up soon. He has to. He’ll open his eyes and smile his everything-will-be-okay-smile. If only that were true. I run from the spot I was standing at only seconds before, hoping that maybe I can outrun the bad thoughts. They threaten to return, so I run faster. Flying sand surrounds me, but I keep running. Step after step, breath after— “Hey, watch where you’re going!” the guy I just crashed into exclaims.
“Jacob, come on!” a second guy shouts. “I-I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking and-” “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just keep your eyes open,” he says as he walks away mumbling. I turn around and briskly walk in the direction of the hospital. As I walk, I pass a family playing catch on the sand. I stare at them in acute envy because I’ll never be like them again. They’re enjoying life, living without a care in the world. With every throw of the ball, they’re throwing their problems away with it. The parents pick up their two children and swing them around like in the sappy movies. My parents, I haven’t even thought about how they’re feeling.
replays in mind. “I’m a moron, I know. I was looking at the other lane, and I realized too late...” The waiting room bursts into chaos. Several nurses and doctors crowd the waiting room and file into one room, room 318. “Are you the Walson family?” a doctor asks us as he pulls on some gloves. “Yes, we are,” my mother answers in a trembling voice.
“Your son has lost a lot of blood due to the accident. We’re doing everything we can, but it has become apparent that he had lost too much blood by the time he was admitted. We will have to prep him for surgery, but I must be honest, Ma’am. The chances of him living are forward and head slim but not doubtful.”
I force myself forward and head back to the awful “I force myself building that oozes anxiety and despair. As I get “Thank you, Doctor.” The back to the awful building that closer, I start to see the doctor exits the waiting room, oozes anxiety and despair.” hospital. My stomach and my parents and I wait for drops, and my eyes sting. I 150 excruciatingly long push myself and walk minutes. Finally, the doctor straight to the ER waiting room with my eyes focused comes back out. only on the floor. “I’m sorry. We did everything we could.” “Hey, Hon. Listen, the man who was in the other car during the accident is here,” my dad says as he comes A sharp pain stabs me in my side. My chest tightens, towards me and leads me across the waiting room. and my head starts to tingle. Anger immediately rushes over me. “He still has some time left for you all to see him. He is “Now, I know what you’re thinking but have an open still unconscious, but it is likely that he can hear you if mind about this.” you speak to him. We’ll give you three some privacy.” “An open mind? This guy has-” and then I see him, sitting next to my mom with a look of concern plastered across his face. “You?” “You?” Jacob says, rising from the chair. My parents look back and forth between us, trying to decipher the connection. “You did this to my brother? You, the person who said ‘watch where you’re going’ and ‘keep your eyes open?’” I ask, utterly mortified. “That was your brother? I am so sorry. I had no idea. Is there anything I can do to help him?” I don’t answer. I can’t even look at him. The image of him being so rude to me when I bumped into him
He leads us to room 318 and shuts the door behind us. The horrible noise of the heart monitor is now beeping dangerously slow. The three of us surround the hospital bed and do nothing but stare. I sit on the chair closest to the bed. “Hey, Sam. Look, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope that your dreaming of some weird happy scene of a good life like in the lame TV shows and movies. God, I never thought I’d say that. I hope you’re having a good time in your fantasy life, and I… I hope you stay in a happy place. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay, eventually.” I know lying isn’t the best thing to do right now, but a part of me wants to believe I’m telling the truth. The beeps begin to gradually slow down and merge into one everlasting hum.
Juhi Narula is a sophomore at Indian Creek and hopes to incorporate writing in her future. She loves reading, writing, playing piano, and absolutely adores using sarcastic tones. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 4
Beginning and Ending Oil on Canvas by Hillary Briles
Hilary Briles is the Director of Fine Arts at Indian Creek Upper School. She studied Art at Skidmore College. When not teaching Art at Indian Creek, Hilary paints in her studio in Annapolis. 5 Trivium: Journeys 2015
My Mother Speaks Anonymous My mother speaks with her Hispanic hands, delicate wings of iron and spice, somehow miles away even though she is only across the kitchen floor. There is a border between us, for my lips are a forged document And my letters that do not roll like dewdrops into her alphabet Have no place signing next to the x My father does not point with his fingers, but rather with his chin, lined with the stubborn pride of a thousand Chiefs, for he carries a gift of tribes across his brow. And I have inherited a longing for something raw and wild but there are no plains one can whittle Out of concrete and wooden bones I am not my mother’s Spanish child. I have rotting warriors in my blood. She sobs at the description of the lost generation, for I have ghosts stitched into my heart that I will spend a lifetime trying to find. Lady Luck has tied the branches of my family tree together until I am no more connected than the final leaf of fall and the sad thing is, my tongue is a garden that will never know spring Rather, the songs off my people are wild horses not to be tamed Tantalizing, and yet, They are not mine to keep I close my eyes and I see the words pouring like lyrics inside of my skin my heart is a dictionary drowning in synonyms and my bones are nothing more than chipped poetry clenched between unforgiving teeth There are entire pasts and cultures inside of me, each one calling in its native tongue but I, I don't even understand the language of my own two hands how am I to tame the time machine that is my very flesh and bone? I do not have a cacophony of curses and soliloquies rolling off my tongue My every syllable does not sing I have never learned to dance to the rhythm of my heartbeat each drummer an ancestor I do not recognize But still they lend me their power a force of nature encoded in my DNA Their battles may be over But mine have just begun I have a nation of forgotten brethren Lining my breathe with their voices And we will be heard And we will be understood In whatever wording our hearts know best The kitchen tiles no longer resemble a tidal wave of continents between my mother and my father and I. Rather, my house grows roots that do not separate. I take a deep breath And we speak our own languages Together 2015 Trivium: Journeys 6
For Molly Robin Depaolis
Will you meet me in the garden? The sky blue- bright gaze of warm red blooms around us Your smile, ever-present reminder of love and life. Will you meet me in the garden? So much to tell of children growing Roots and branches strong, flowers Calm voices stream in your steps Chin up laughter, happy eyes Sisters joining, peaceful echoes of you. Will you meet me in the garden? Nourish spirit, sweet life. Whisper of a bird; be present, aware of all around youI’ll look for you in the colors of our garden. Shining star, smooth salt and sand breezes I know you’re thereLet the garden grow.
Two Flowers and a Vase John Tahsuda
Acrylic on Canvas
Robin DePaolis is the Director of Admissions at Indian Creek Upper School. She loves to write poetry and studied Literature at Union College in New York. She wrote this poem for her sister in law, Molly Bidstrup, who passed away after a brave battle against lymphoma cancer. Molly was bright, loving, genuine, and passionate. Robin would like to thank Indian Creek School for supporting her creative spirit and her family for being her family. John Tahsuda is a junior at Indian Creek. He has another piece featured in this magazine on page 16. His work was also featured in Trivium: Beginnings & Endings in 2014. 7 Trivium: Journeys 2015
That Day Whitney Nelson
The Pain I felt Will forever be from that day I will never feel that much pain again I miss him and forever will. All I see is him Everyone and everything He is all around me. No matter how hard I try It will never be enough I try and try And nothing gets better. The Pain I felt Will forever be from that day I will never feel that much pain again I miss him and forever will. People see me crying Assuming I am weird I miss him so much it hurts. I cannot imagine a world without him He who guided me Who helped and showed me the way. The Pain I felt Will forever be from that day I will never feel that much pain again I miss him and forever will. It happened five years ago in July I was ten The one who was always there for me was gone. He is gone forever Cancer took him from us The pain got to him. I came home from camp To see everyone crying I knew. I saw the hurt and pain in their eyes The one who was my father Who was always there for me was dead. The Pain I felt Will forever be from that day I will never feel that much pain again I miss him and forever will.
Whitney Nelson is a sophomore at Indian Creek. She wrote this song in honor of her father, Karl Nelson. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 8
Lightning Chelsea Cote
Lightning is the electrical storm that lights up the sky, As if its dance makes the stars shine bright. The sky can be dripping, crying from the beauty, or it could even be dry, struck in awe from the sheer sight. And the glow that comes from it is a gigantic ball of white. Then there are some that are afraid of the rumbling, the sheer power of it. Others rejoice, risking their lives to take pictures of the storm. And most hide, afraid of the electricity it can spit. But there are a select few, who stay to watch the sky perform, Enchanted by every move it makes, anticipating the next move that leaves the sky in a fit.
The Graveyard Book Zoe Morin
Digital Art by Tablet
Chelsea Cote is a senior at Indian Creek. When writing this poem, she was inspired by the power of lightning and the awe that it inspires in others. Zoe Morin is a junior at Indian Creek. She enjoys art, reading, and music. She would like to thank Abby for her continued support in all her endeavors. 9 Trivium: Journeys 2015
Hair Ilana Abraham Some might ask if I dye my hair. When people ask me, I sometimes say no, and other times I say yes. It depends on how I feel. In life it seems to me we have stages. Being a child, a teenager, an adult, and then we just die. I feel like my hair also has stages. When I was 10 years old, I started noticing my hair wasn't like everyone else's. I was confused and people started asking questions. "Why do you have grey hair?" "I only see people with spots!" "Why do you have so many grey hairs?" I would just stay silent because, honestly, I did not know why I had grey streaks. Trust me, it wasn't anything to be happy about.. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere after everyone called me names. The worst was when people would call me an old granny. It wasn't fair because I didn't have a choice; I was just born with it. It was a stage in my life where I was realizing who my real friends were and how life was not what I thought it was. Because of this one "flaw," people made me feel like shit. It wasn't fun and games anymore. It got to the point where I begged my mom to let me dye my hair because of the humiliation. Eventually, I started dying my hair every month so when the grey started to show, no one would notice. So, I've been doing this for about 6 years now. This was another stage in my life. After I dyed my hair, I started getting more friends and guys were talking to me more. Anyway, I felt prettier when my hair was dyed. It just goes to show you appearance really does matter so much to people. What was so bad about having grey hair? It's not my choice. I was born with grey streaks and dark brown hair, but it looks black. As I got older, more grey started to come. My hair is long now, and it's the darkest black you can get out of the box. Having black hair reminds me of all the dark things that have happened and, until yesterday, I haven't really realized this, but having the grey hair is like the happy parts in my life. I've gotten so used to dying my hair, but maybe I should stop dying my hair and more happy times will appear.
Self-Portrait Lizzie Hornick
Oil on Canvas
Ilana Abraham is a senior at Indian Creek. This piece was written for Mrs. Engles’ Creative Writing class. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 10
Drowning in Water Sarah O’Connor She knows how to feel because her parents taught her so But the way she feels she can’t let him go She knows he’s no good but she wants him to change Her mother thought her husband was the same She waits year after year for him to come back The boat hits the rocks; water comes through the cracks She prays every night and sits by the door But every birthday it’s still an empty shore Her mother cries every night and leaves an ocean on the floor A river stains as her face like it never has before All that she ever knows is tears and regret That is something she will never forget Every day passes by without him here He left them and there is no way that he can just disappear She doesn’t know how to make him come home So her mother will stop crying She wants him to come back to see the love of a daughter But how can she do that when she’s drowning in water Fast forward to years later and she meets a man to fill the void She’s destroyed inside but there is a kind of sadness she is trying to avoid She thinks that she loves him but he drinks too much But she cringes whenever he uses his fists to touch She doesn’t know love from a man so she thinks drowning is all right As she is gasping for air from this never-ending fight The water flooded her mind so she thinks she can change him She puts her hand to her face and touches her bruised skin She has nowhere else to go, as she prays to god questioning if he’s there Hoping someone will finally answer her prayer Every day passes by without him here He left them and there is no way that he can just disappear She doesn’t know how to make him come home So her mother will stop crying She wants him to come back to see the love of a daughter But how can she do that when she’s drowning in water She’s running in slow motion Scared and confused and doesn’t know any other emotions The rain pours down as it hits your face The only hit that doesn’t leave a painful embrace She needs to escape she needs a way out But this is all she’s ever known so she doesn’t understand rain in this drought When she sees her husband’s face she sees the man that left her mother A shadowy figure that reminds her of another Every day passes by and she’s alone She is too scared to leave him and too scared to come home She doesn’t know how to feel love at all And she doesn’t know how to stop crying She wants him to see what he did to his daughter But how can she do that when she drowned in water?
Sarah O’Connor is a senior at Indian Creek. She would like to thank Mr. Monack for helping her with her poem. She will be attending James Madison University in the fall. 11 Trivium: Journeys 2015
Hunter
Oil on Canvas by Rachael Hughen
Rachael Hughen is a senior at Indian Creek. She has another piece featured in this magazine on page 17. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 12
Psychological Warfare Jordan McDonald You think of me your Skinner's box, A flesh chamber for your lessons Your unstable game of Operation with effects we can’t fully fathom Let me break my back in two for whatever treats you have to offer I'll adapt to your schedules You'll never have to worry of success I've clearly learned of helplessness Your love brings the most classical of conditioning I'll be your Pavlovian lover, A mere glance will be enough to keep me salivating The bar will be damn near underground when you're done with me You got my heart on a variable-interval schedule Let it be known that I am always on my toes They are tough as a dancers; those who study the very kind of self-expression that you stifle...and the irony has not been lost on me once Cause all I am is application to you, the quickest learner of them all Call me a sponge, I'm full of empty holes and I can’t help but to take in what is offered You're the most sadistic of teachers, And I'm the hardest working student you've ever seen But every sponge can be rung out And inference is the daughter of insight, with whom I've become well acquainted So, let's just say extinction is on its way if it's not already knocking on the door And I've learned of discrimination so treatment of this kind will be never more When I make up my mind know that I've also built fences around my safe haven So I caution you not to hold your breath in the hopes of spontaneous generation But better yet, keep holding on See just how reluctantly the air gives us dependents her love Pray you fare better Than I 13 Trivium: Journeys 2015
Sacrificial Reflection Jordan McDonald
We managed to dodge the debris But you thought we'd come out unscathed And that's as far-fetched as the longest throw And as far from the truth as we all know But I couldn't help but let you eat it up for a little while Time only allowed for one of us to remain in denial So I felt the burns and cleaned the wounds And every wince that slid through my teeth must've counted for something But maybe ignorance is bliss And facing it head on is as brave as it is disastrous Maybe I would've been better off keeping myself in the dark Cause the light made no attempt to spare my heart But then again, Neither did you
Stitched Up Jocelyn Auld
Mixed Media on Paper
Jordan McDonald is sophomore at Indian Creek. In an ideal world, she would love to become a successful writer someday. She loves reading, writing, singing, social activism, world history, and Arizona green teas. Jocelyn Auld is a freshman at Indian Creek. She has another piece featured in this magazine on page 18. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 14
Mama, I Made It Troy Williams
MAMA I MADE IT... and just like all the other times, you’re not here to see it unfold, I feel like another story untold, caught up in a chokehold from you. You missed elementary and middle school graduation and you’ll miss high school too. All I ever wanted was some sort of love and you missed that too. But none of that matters because MAMA I MADE IT with WHAT thanks to you? You were never there to see my strides, which is probably why I haven’t shed a tear since the day you died. MAMA! MAMA! I’m on the basketball team – why didn’t you make an effort to come see a game Oh wait, you were too sick with HIV. I have no pity for you, you see, and no one told you to contract AIDS. We have a great team this year and you could have embarrassed me until it caused joyful pain. You could have sat in the stands and yelled comments like “that’s my son!” or “I’m his mother!” or “put him in the game!” MAMA I MADE IT! But where were you when no one else was? How come it was so easy for you to buy drugs and so hard for me to buy your love? I mean, last time I checked a hug was free but you would rather purchase crack with a dub. See the way crack got its name was because it cracked relationships and the way hug got its name was because it hugged or held pieces together. But MAMA I MADE IT and I don’t need you... I have the Bartzs and the Belts and the Swartzs and a lot of others too. I call those moms Mom, just like I used to call you. MAMA LOOK! I’m a golden child! I didn’t follow the streets, I beat the system and talk with intelligence when I speak. I am currently 18 and the last time YOU SAW ME I was just 15. I’m still wet behind the ears, breath smells like Similac, young, dumb, and full of shit... But I made it! [Chuckles] I’m going to be honest; now that I think about it, I didn’t care when you died, I could barely shed a tear or cry. I mean you put it on yourself to use drugs, sleep around and lie. I learned that actions dictate your future and you could have dictated yours. Now don’t get me wrong, I have love for you and always will. You’re my mother – you’ll always have a place in my heart. I just want you to know of the countless accomplishments I made, the journey I endured, and my great starts. I just want you to know, I made it.
Troy Williams is senior at Indian Creek. He will be attending York College of Pennsylvania in the fall. He enjoys basketball and poetry. He’d like to include a shout out to his basketball team: “You guys are my A1D1s!” 15 Trivium: Journeys 2015
Houses Have Their Secrets Kyle Bruther Houses have their secrets: oh, the things that they might say! Granted that they had a voice, what things would they convey? Would they speak of budding romance? Or the children that in their halls played? Perhaps of the gruesome murder, that happened the other day‌. Houses may have secrets; attics and closets filled, Eager to tell their story, with voices creaky and shrill. But houses don’t have voices, And thus, they never will.
Man is Not the Lord of Beings John Tahsuda
Mixed Media on Canvas
Kyle Bruther is a senior at Indian Creek. He enjoys music and the fine arts. He plans to build race cars in the future. This poem is his favorite that he has written. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 16
Rushing, Running Lindsey Ray
rushing, running but going no where possibilities grow "It's all in your head" they say but they don't know as the fear grows it builds like a big bonfire it makes me crawl in my skin waiting to consume me i want to scream out. rushing, running.
Approaching the Finish Line Rachael Hughen
Oil on Canvas
Lindsey Ray is a junior at Indian Creek. She wrote this poem for Mrs. Engles’ Creative Writing class. 17 Trivium: Journeys 2015
The Pillow Book A model of Sei ShĹ?nagon’s poem by Jocelyn Auld
Hateful Things One finds it despicable when someone exits a room and leaves the door open. This action is particularly repulsive when you specifically tell them to close the door. One detests it when exasperating siblings will not leave them alone. One has even had them continue to chatter in their ear after they have been asked to leave many times. This action is extremely irritating. When one's parents are clingy, like a love sick child in middle school, as they try and create empty and senseless conversation, one finds this both hateful and embarrassing! One finds it repulsive when one's shades of black do not match. Mismatching colors decimate the integrity of the outfit. It is tedious when one finds the perfect outfit, yet alas! The blacks do not match. One must refrain from becoming enraged when someone disrupts them when they are engrossed in their activities. One finds that a book is much less enthralling with a sibling hovering over it. A painting is suddenly dull and monotonous once a parent has discomposed one. A song is ubiquitous until one is seized by the harsh grip of reality and pulled back. One finds early mornings to be most disagreeable. Getting up early and disturbing one's sweet slumber will put a damper on the whole day. It is odious when spiteful people are music snobs. To deprecate one's interests is quite obnoxious. We should all be entitled to like the things we enjoy. One has even seen people declare themselves nobler because of their personal taste. Pleasing Things When one gets a new CD or record it is a delightful feeling. Whether it is of tunes one has heard before or has note, the feeling is still quite agreeable. Hearing new songs is like letting a new world or story into one's mind. Listening to old songs is a sweeping wave of bittersweet nostalgia. Taking one back to different times, lives, and stories. One adores it when one gets to enjoy a lazy day with people one cares about. Lying on a couch and letting the TV drone on in the background, enjoying conversation or just the company. Raucous laughter at immature jokes and quoting of favorite songs makes these days almost perfect. One is exuberant when one masters a new song on bass. A fast song with driving eighth notes or a peaceful song laced with lazy trills and high melodies. Being able to play through the whole song is quite satisfying. One finds serenity in the twilight sky. The world seems calm and peaceful, and the sky is painted in shades of blue. The line right above the horizon is glowing orange and pink, the area above it tinted purple. Yet, above one's head the sky is turning dark and inky and the first stars are twinkling in the distance. One can amble around at this time and the world seems to be put on a dimmer. The harsh light of the sun is gone but the world is yet to be wrought in darkness. One finds these evenings to be delicate and wondrous.
2015 Trivium: Journeys 18
Underwater Paradise Oil on Canvas by Lizzie Hornick
Lizzie Hornick is a senior at Indian Creek. She has another piece featured in this magazine on page 10. 19 Trivium: Journeys 2015
Writing a Poem for Homework Erica Argilan
Does it have to rhyme? I guess it should. Must I give it a title? I guess I could. Do I have to write it? I guess I can’t plagiarize. Can I use a big font? No, it’s to help with your eyes. Does it have to have a topic? Do I have to spell right? Does it have to be serious? I’ll put it off ‘till tonight. Does it have to be long? Is a sentence enough? If not, how ‘bout two? Man, poems are tough. Did I choose a topic? Am I almost done? Wait, just one more sentence! Hey, that was fun!
Erica Argilan is a sophomore at Indian Creek. She likes to write humorous poems, even when they are not for homework. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 20
New Mexico Trilogy Bryton Smith
An Abiquiu Sunset I sit watching the dusk In her spirit I take in The enchanted sky and mountains Georgia, I’m doing my best To tell them what it’s like here Kokopelli I met Kokopelli An August evening near Magdalena He told me about his euphoria and eternal life I asked him what he thought about all the regimes he had passed through The same place Different periods of time He replied-Silently Walking west The Ghosts of Persecution They took over this land! They forced their beliefs on this land’s people The land became theirs But few ask the land what it believes
Bryton Smith would like to thank all of his teachers for educating him in the liberal arts and for enriching his life. He enjoys writing both humorous and serious creative works, and much of his recent prose has focused on such elements and themes as philosophy, the question of whether a god exists, and physics and astronomy. Bryton will be attending Oberlin College next year, and his top academic interests include physics and astronomy, creative writing, and history. Bryton has another piece featured in this magazine on pages 23—24. 21 Trivium: Journeys 2015
Native Medallion Hand-molded clay by Nick Stroup
Nick Stroup is a senior at Indian Creek. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 22
A Platonic Encounter Bryton Smith
“He [Plato] taught contempt for the real world and disdain for the practical application of scientific knowledge. Plato’s followers succeeded in extinguishing the light of science and experiment that had been kindled by Democritus and the other Ionians.” --Carl Sagan
“Plato is my favorite philosopher, but I often briefly convert to Democritus. It’s just that if Democritus’ philosophical approach were embraced, science would have been older and stronger.” --Dr. Myeong Song, professor of philosophy, a fictional character in one of my short stories
Plato is remembered as an ancient Greek philosopher, who advocated reason and mathematics to understand nature including astronomical phenomena. I am an amateur astronomer, who supports scientific thinking involving observation and experiment. I had always wanted to meet with Plato. Questions I had for him included “Could you elaborate on your thoughts about Democritus?” and “Do you truly believe writing will worsen people’s ability to memorize information?”
behind my arranging our meeting. “Fascinating, 1.414213562!” Plato said as he looked at the approximate value of the square root of two on my calculator. “There’s something I really want to ask you. Are you a Pytha…” I was cut off as the food arrived, and I lost the train of my thought. I then asked Plato whether he was interested in talking about astronomy. “Looking at the universe, it is clear that the planets possess souls, as it is unimaginable they could continue to orbit in circles if they were not conscious,” Plato says. I tell Plato about Johannes Kepler, that Kepler was an astronomer who “shared your belief that planets have circular orbits,” but that he believed the planets orbit the Sun, not the Earth, as Plato had.
I continue, “Kepler used data acquired by the In December 2014, Plato and I agreed to meet in astronomer who hired him, Tycho Brahe. Brahe was a Pitagorean Delight, a Greek restaurant, in Annapolis, Danish nobleman, who liked drinking and partying. He MD, U.S.A. Plato, however, initially mistakenly went to somehow developed an interest in astronomy, I imagine the Annapolis Inn in Rhodes, Greece. Fortunately, Plato while lying drunk between a pub and his residence. was brought to Pitagorean Delight in time by what he Anyways, after Brahe died, Kepler went so far as to described as “a imagine what man in a blue earth’s orbit box, wearing a “Looking at the universe, it is clear that the planets would look like long article of if viewed from possess souls, as it is unimaginable they could colorful Mars and what neckwear, as Mars’ orbit continue to orbit in circles if they were not well as a would look like conscious,” Plato says. woman wearing if viewed from an article of the Sun, and he headwear, and a found it is not strange dog wearing a small article of colorful possible for the planets to orbit the Sun in circles. neckwear.” In one of our ears, we each put a certain Instead, he found that the planets orbit the Sun in fish, so our conversation would be all Greek to us. Our elliptical orbits. Kepler was an ardent follower of a sect conversation flowed, at times heatedly, for hours on called Lutheranism of a monotheistic religion called end. I am not even going to Christianity and would have wanted to believe the one try to write Plato’s harsh criticism of Democritus. His god in which he believed made circular planetary orbits, criticisms of Democritus were interesting, but I did feel but being a scientist who treated data as superior to his offended by his criticisms of “the father of modern preferences for reality, he accepted the verity of Brahe’s science” as multiple people have referred to data.” Democritus. I relay only the following segment in which I have just drawn a 45-45-90 right triangle and At this point, Plato looked straight ahead, like he is shown Plato the approximate value of the square root often portrayed in statues, and said, “People of your of two. We then proceeded to discuss Plato’s time have to be careful with music. It is powerful.” rationalism versus my appreciation of observation and experiment regarding the universe, a main question I realized Plato was talking about the music that had just 23 Trivium: Journeys 2015
started to be played over the speakers, so I asked the waiter to turn off the music. Plato thanked me. Interestingly, it was “Why Can’t We Be Friends” from the 1970s, and I couldn’t help chuckling because Plato and I were certainly not friends at the moment.
I found a translation of The Republic hard to follow and that I zoned out for much, if not most, of it, but that I did enjoy it. He replies, “Much food for thought. I enjoyed speaking with a youth whose mind seems to have been thoroughly corrupted. I look forward to going through the observations and math.”
To continue my point about the importance of observation, I add, “It has been found Venus’ atmosphere is trapping heat, largely because of a compound called carbon dioxide. Although less severe, After pausing for a moment, Plato says, “Farewell.” the same problem exists on earth. Using this Plato walked out to go I then inform Plato of the Big Bang knowledge can help, so to a ship bound for the observations can also be island of Rhodes. He Theory and reiterate my position on practical.” had to walk through a thick crowd of people whether a god exists. After I finish, Plato gathered, ironically, for accuses me of being strongly attached to “the imperfect the convention of a local philosophy society. Very sadly, and less real world” because I have said nothing about most of the attendees dismissed him as “probably a the Platonic perfect world, and he asks me if science has passionate, absent-minded philosophy professor lost in disproved the existence of “the intelligible realm.” thought and going overkill with a toga in December.” To this I respond, “It has not, but the fact that it has not neither confirms nor denies the existence of the intelligible realm. I am from a predominantly monotheistic society, but I myself do not know whether such a god exists.”
P.S. I have some regrets. First, Sagan and many others have believed Plato was a Pythagorean. I remembered one part of The Republic. In Book VII of The Republic (as translated by G.M.A. Grube and revised by C.D.C. Reeve), Plato writes:
I took out a one dollar bill and then continued.
[Socrates:] “It’s likely that, as the eyes fasten on astronomical motions, so the ears fasten on harmonic ones, and that the sciences of astronomy and harmonics are closely akin. This is what the Pythagoreans say, Glaucon, and we agree, don’t we?”
“You will note this unit of currency says ‘In God we Trust,’ which is the official motto of this nation. The majority of my contemporaries are convinced that one god exists, yet nothing conclusively verifies their conviction. This being said, nothing conclusively discredits their conviction. As Socrates said, ‘I know nothing.’ I refuse to believe ‘I know nothing,’ but I will say I do not know whether a god exists.”
[Glaucon:] “We do.”
I had wanted to ask Plato whether he was a Pythagorean, but I was cut off by the food arriving. I have been berating myself ever since. Second, I forgot In response, Plato explains his reasoning for the to ask him about his thoughts on writing. Third, I read in existence of “the Demiurge.” I then inform Plato of the Book V of The Republic that Plato advocated an equal Big Bang Theory and reiterate my position on whether a education for both sexes, so I wish I had told him about god exists. Maryam Mirzakhani, the first woman to win the Fields Medal. I imagine Plato probably would have been I inform Plato I have the observational data acquired by pleased that a woman had finally been recognized for Brahe and the mathematical analysis by Kepler. I had the honor in mathematics. purchased the copies from a bookstore. P.P.S. While sailing to Samos on the Aegean Sea to Plato responds, “No papyrus! Interesting! I would like attend one of the little-known Pythagorean conferences, to take this as a mathematical exercise. Probably nothing Plato was absorbed in the books I had given to him. It much will come out of these. If anything does, however, was stormy. He had only gone through perhaps a my mind might break. I may need to consider the quarter of the findings and relevant math and was potential value of incorporating observation and perhaps starting to appreciate observation in addition to experiment into the Academy curriculum.” reasoning and math. Alas, however, he lost his footing, and the books went overboard. Plato was heard After eating and talking about more mundane topics lamenting to himself, “This tragedy is just as bad as such as the cold weather, during which I violated Aegeus jumping into this sea!” Maryland law by buying Californian wine for Plato, which he did like, I tell Plato, the great philosopher, that 2015 Trivium: Journeys 24
Spiraling A poem modeled after the Fibonacci Sequence by Kyle Bruther
Oh, Hi. You there. You poor soul. You think you are sane? I wish I could say that were true. However, it’s not. You are undoubtedly insane. You’re ever-spiraling downward into the deep abyss of insanity, my friend. We are all spiraling, spiraling into something, falling that much closer to that which we do not understand The spiral never ends. It just keeps going. It never lets up, never changes, it only constantly keeps you down with absolutely no chance of letting up. It cuts, it drags, it will do all things in its power to drag you down.
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An Infinite Space
Acrylic on Canvas by Lizzie Hornick
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The Mage of the Moors Alaina Clemence The story began with a girl and a train, one carrying the other through flower-blanketed hills on a mist-filled morning. In a simple green dress, a white teacup in her hand, the girl sat in the train booth, gazing out the dusty window at nothing in particular. Bringing the full cup to her lips, she happened to glance up; at the sight of the tall, lavishly dressed woman making her way down the aisle towards her, she straightened up, setting her cup down once again. Appearances were everything to this woman she was meeting, though the girl’s own appearance could not be helped due to her lack of spending money. She had, however, bought a hat for the occasion, a simple beige straw with a burgundy ribbon, fastened in the middle by a trio of pale lavender berries; the girl hoped her efforts would be appreciated by this regal woman, who was now sliding into the grey cushioned seat opposite her own.
afterwards in thought. “Jasmine Oolong, if I’m not mistaken?” she asked, tapping her gloved finger against the teacup’s rim. “You have good taste, young lady.”
The woman half-turned her head, the large blue feather plume on her own velvet hat fluttering at the motion, and eyed the seemingly plain girl seated before her. With a rather resigned sigh, the woman spoke.
“Evanna Rossenburg.”
“I haven’t got all day,” she said coolly, her gloved hands reaching for the steaming teacup inches away from her fingers. “But an hour should do for this meeting, shan’t it?” The girl nodded, keeping her hands politely folded in her lap.
“I was told it was your favorite,” the girl responded, taking a sip from her own cup. “Mine as well.” “So, let us get straight to the point: what is it that you want me to get for you?” Madame asked, eyeing the simply- dressed yet mysterious girl before her from beneath the brim of her large hat. “You already know that I try my hardest to obtain the desires of my clients.” The young girl leaned forward, the polite smile now gone from her lips and in its place, a stoic, rather intimidating expression.
There was silence; nothing could be heard save for the rattling of the train’s undercarriage upon the rails. Finally, Madame spoke. “Evanna Rossenburg,” she repeated. “Evanna Rossenburg, the infamous Mage of the Moors?”
“Did I not say her name?” the girl asked. She knew it was rather risky to be speaking to Madame Praepotens in such a brash “It should,” manner, but she replied. couldn’t “... Madame attempted to hide her shudder. ‘Why on she “As long as allot any you can earth would you want me to obtain her, of all the other wasted time or promise to get words. The me what I large mages out there? Is it for her powers?’” desire.” The ultramarine feather in the feather in woman’s hat bristled slightly, as if offended by the girl’s Madame’s hat quivered again; from confusion, anger, or words. fear, one couldn’t say. “Are you saying you don’t have faith in my abilities?” the woman questioned, bringing her cup to her rosy, painted lips. “Not at all, Madame Praepotens,” the girl said. “I only mentioned it as I have no desire to waste your resources or time if what I want is…” The girl paused. “Unobtainable,” she finished. “Ah,” the woman replied, “I see.” Madame Praepotens took a sip of her tea, pausing 27 Trivium: Journeys 2015
“I do my best not to meddle in the affairs of mages, dear girl,” the woman said, clearly shaken. Bringing her teacup up to her lips once more, she attempted to take a sip, but her hand trembled so violently that she was unable to drink without severely ruining her makeup. She put the cup down. “They are quick to anger and have entirely unpredictable personalities. And Evanna Rossenburg…” Madame attempted to hide her shudder. “Why on earth would you want me to obtain her, of all the other mages out there? Is it for her powers? Is it to simply capture her? Or is it something more?”
The girl’s hand was clenched so tightly around her teacup that her knuckles were white, highlighting the ghost of a nasty scar cut across her pale hand.
in the car being its own rattling along the train tracks.
“Though it truly is none of your business,” the girl said, her dark brown eyes flashing ominously, making Madame stiffen, “as your job is only to obtain what I need, Evanna Rossenburg is my sister.”
After taking one last sip of her tea, the young girl withdrew her hazel wand from its resting place on the table.
“Thank you for your time,” she said.
In a matter of moments and a flash of wind, she disappeared in a flurry of fawnfeathers. “... The girl pulled a hazel wand from the sleeve colored Madame’s eyes and she of her dress, placing it before her on the table. ‘I widened turned to the window, the large will not use this on you. I will not use it all blue feather in her hat fluttering during our meeting.’” frantically with her movements. A large eagle, the same color as the feathers inside the train, “You- you mean,” Madame began, “you’re also-?” soared past the glass with speed and grace, diving down and ascending off towards the mist-clouded mountains “I am no one, to you or anyone else,” the girl said. “I overlooking the moors. Madame turned back to the am from a family of mages, although my sister booth, staring at the place where the young girl had decided to follow her own path and therefore carved been only moments before; hand shaking, she picked up out her title of infamy. Her name is not Evanna the large feather resting only centimeters from her Rossenburg, she shares my last name.” teacup. The train car jolted, causing some tea to slosh out of the two women’s cups, spattering the booth’s white tablecloth with dark stains. Neither female seemed to notice.
The girl pulled a hazel wand from the sleeve of her dress, placing it before her on the table. “I will not use this on you, I will not use it all during our meeting.” She raised her eyes and saw the fear on the other woman’s face, so the girl smiled in hopes of easing her discomfort. “If you cannot help me, then simply say so,” she continued. Madame Praepotens sighed deeply, her eyes shut tightly. After a few moments, she opened them again, the striking blue irises very telling of the woman’s decision. “I cannot help you, I am afraid.” The young girl lowered her eyes, the only other noise
“I pray I didn’t make the wrong decision,” the woman said, removing the hat from her head. With a careful jab, Madame stuck the mage-girl’s feather into the blue velvet of her hat, just alongside her huge, ultramarine plume of a feather, before placing it back on her head. “These are the times that make me wish I weren’t so good at my job.” ~ The story began with a girl and a train, one carrying the other through flower-blanketed hills on a mist-filled morning. The story ended in a moor-travelling train with no passengers, save for two half-full teacups and a fawn feather plume.
Alaina Clemence is a freshman at Indian Creek and a member of the STEM program. She hopes to pursue fiction writing in addition to science and art in college. In this story, the girl’s name is never revealed, which was intentional. 2015 Trivium: Journeys 28
Garden Scene Charles “Chip” Voros
Pastels on Paper
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Charles “Chip� Voros
Trivium: Journeys is dedicated to Chip Voros. After serving with the U.S. Navy for many years, he became a teacher at the Naval Academy, followed by moving to Indian Creek Lower School as a 5th grade teacher, and finishing his career with Indian Creek Upper School. Chip embodies the ideal of the Renaissance Man. He prods, questions, and cajoles students into thinking outside of their concepts of culture, art, history, and philosophy. He leads students into areas they would never have traveled; and when they take that journey they become better people. Chip is always on a journey of discovery and always leading us into new paths. Chip was the first to propose and deliver a literary magazine to Indian Creek Upper School. We, the staff and advisors of Trivium: Journeys, are grateful to him for sending us on this journey. Phyllis Everette
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Trivium [triv-ee-uhm] Noun: an introductory curriculum involving the study of grammar, rhetoric, and logic.
Staff Maia Brown Nik Goyal* Jordan McDonald* Juhi Narula* Whitney Nelson Bryton Smith Elli Vickers Caroline Walworth Faculty Advisors Phyllis Everette Ashley Fetterolf Cover Art Self-Discovery Gabriela Tahsuda
Acrylic on Canvas Layout Design Maia Brown Ashley Fetterolf
* Denotes second year editors 31 Trivium: Journeys 2015
The literary magazine Trivium is a free publication that is edited and produced by the student editors and faculty advisors at Indian Creek Upper School. Student editors participate in the creation of the magazine as an extracurricular activity. Any Indian Creek Upper School students or faculty members may submit works of poetry, prose, or visual art to be included in the literary magazine. There is no limit on the number of creative works that any one person can submit. All submissions are judged anonymously by the student editors and are chosen based on overall literary/artistic quality and adherence to the theme. All submissions should be sent in high-quality .jpg, .docx, or .pdf format to trivium@indiancreekschool.org before the first of May. The literary magazine Trivium is created using Microsoft Publisher software. The digital edition of the magazine is hosted on issuu.com. Fonts used are Narkisim and Harrington. All artwork images were created and edited by Hilary Briles prior to submission. The magazine is printed by Anderson Minuteman Press of Glen Burnie, MD. Funding for the magazine was generously provided by the Narula family.
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