Malia Allmon, Collage Quilt
A Note from the Editors Lovett’s Signature publication is an art gallery of sorts highlighting the efforts of student writers and artists over the 2020-2021 school year. We won’t dwell on the fact that the pandemic made this a year of unknowns. Instead, we will focus on what we do know: nothing stops the creative process from happening. Art is the means by which we express ourselves. The writer and the artist see the world from their own perspectives. Inspired, they contemplate how best to share their vantage point. They experiment, they design, they redesign, and eventually, they give their creations back to the world. Each day at Lovett, the process happens all around us. The Signature looks back on just some of these moments. A compilation of short stories, poems and visual art, it gives our student writers and artists a platform where they can share the best of their work. We are proud to present this collection to the Lovett community each spring. This school year, with what may be best described as one with a tentative start, is no exception. That we can once again publish this collection is a testament to the fact that the creative spirit can endure and thrive despite the circumstances. It is also a reflection of the dedication of the teachers and mentors who work with students each day to give them an environment in which they can explore and create. The Signature student editors would like to thank a special group of teachers who made this edition possible: Mr. May-Beaver, Mr. Newman, Ms. Schick, Mrs. Story, Mr. Smith, and Ms. Walter. They themselves are writers and artists who pause in their own exploration and creation of art to teach, mentor, and inspire their students. Without their hard work and dedication, this edition and much of the creative work in it would not be possible. We end this school year at a time when the world seems to be reopening. During the pandemic, the artists and writers, like everyone, had a smaller corner of the world to contemplate. This year’s Signature illustrates that the smaller corners combine beautifully into a broader world we can all enjoy.
The Editors: Katie Maier, Georgia Norton, Finny Roach, Ansley Stibbs
Alec Cauwenberghs, Grade 10, Shoes
Raquel Walkins, Grade 10, Peace of Mind
Observations of Change Henry Haden What is life but love which consumes, Run for you may not evade its clutches, Wither under mother nature’s touches, Greater gain lays outside earthly trenches. King of change reigns here steadfast, ever cruel, What is new is truly old renewal, Wealthy, rich, are back for more, will Prey on folk for dependency, it’s ill. Virtue tells a story none will reject, Pure life lacks desire… cinema bets, Humility seen as tool of respect, yet Hypocrisy passes without effect. Time will tell if you intend to defy, The attack of culture, many comply, Love never the world, orbiting sun, why I view Divine, greater hope than this lie.
Katie Rogers, Grade 9, Self Portrait
Charlotte Allen, Grade 10, Coiled Vase
Kent Morgan, Grade 11, Lookout
Alicia Kim, Grade 10, Nastassja Panos, Grade 10, Relief Print Quilt
Will LeCompte
Trip to the Canyon
An Immortal Fallacy Ashley Marshall Among heroic tales of old, Lived those who fought for love and gold, But as centuries progress, their names grow cold, Caked with dust in history’s folds. But exists in society a common fallacy, That it’s impossible for one to achieve immortality, Look at Icarus and his unending fame. His wax may have melted, but we still say his name. Look at Adam and Eve and the tree they climbed, With the bite of an apple, they damned humankind. “Where are you?” God asked, knowing their sin, Thus, starting the pain for their future kin. Look at Pandora when she opened her box, Releasing the world’s evils that should’ve stayed locked. Envy and greed and gluttony, too, To material things she shifted our view. But it’s more than women who have done their part, Prometheus stole fire to give humans a start. Punished he was, for his deceitful deed, He endures the eagle until he is freed. Achilles fell with that god-awful heel, And I can only imagine how he would feel, If he knew his triumphs were not recalled, Just that one piece of his flesh was the cause of his fall.
Stewart Key, Grade 11, Raven
Ava Vinci, Grade 10
Pixelated Sloane Santos The wet sand beneath my toes squished with every step. Cold, January waves rushed to surround my ankles and sent a shiver through my spine. I clamped onto the yellow towel wrapped around my shoulders, but the crusty fabric made my muscles tense up more. “Turn around for a picture, Miley,” my mother called as she laid back on a beach chair. I pivoted against my body’s shivering state and forced my lips to part ways with each other. As soon as I heard my mother’s camera click, I scurried over before my mom could post a picture without my approval. “You can’t post that,” I remarked as she zoomed in practically close enough to see my pores. “What?” she said as she ripped the phone from my view and gave me a look to make me question my sanity. “Do you see those clouds?” Fluffy clouds stared back at me as my eyes switched between the phone screen to the sky. I reached my hand towards the cotton candy sky to get a few feet closer to the masterpiece above. Soft, yet brisk wind danced through my fingers as I closed my eyes. “Miley,” my mother said with a stern pronunciation. I slapped my hand down to my side, creating a draft of wind to whistle through my ears. My eyes narrowed as I looked back up to the same spot the clouds rested just a few moments before. In their place were pixelated structures, glitching between their perfect, white state back to a grey, static screen. I felt my mother’s hand grasp my wrist and rush me towards the ocean. My feet dragged through the sand until my toes went numb to the cold grains of rock. My eyes grew larger as every fluffy cloud became flat and made of grey squares. The pixels leaked onto the blue sky and soon covered the whole horizon, turning day to never ending night. I tore my face from the dark horror to see other vacationers recording the sky. The only light available was shining on their faces like a thousand mini spotlights. Their hands were shaking, but this time, not because of the freezing waves surrounding their ankles. A static noise hit my unprepared ear as my mother beside me cupped each side of my face. We dropped to the sand as one unit, and I burrowed my head into the side of her arm. A high pitched noise consumed my ears causing my eyes to fasten against each other.
As soon as the static subsided, I opened my eyes. The shining phones were now spotlights facing the pixelated atmosphere. I looked at my mom’s dark chocolate eyes, and she curved one side of her mouth to give me her best “it’ll all be okay” smile. That is the last remaining memory of my past life. The last memory before the sky powered on to broadcast the face of the world’s new leader.
Miles Phillips, Grade 10, Untitled
Anne Alston Brady, Grade 12, Trashy
Katie Maier, Grade 11, The Vase
Wasswa Robbins, Grade 12, Untitled
Alden Ghegan, Grade 10, Dessert Plate
Finny Roach, Grade 10
Nick Roesel, Grade 9, Self Portrait
Dorian Pinkston, Collage Quilt
Raquel Walkins, Grade 10, Girl in Blue Hydrangeas
Sadie Burge, Grade 12, Darkness
Mia Pioli, Grade 12, Collage Quilt
Sand Campbell Key
She always loved the beach. Her grandparent’s house was right on the shoreline, a house made of shells and sand. However, her grandfather was very concerned about the sand. Always wash your feet off after coming in from the beach, that was his rule. It was not only the sand though, he hated dog hair. She had tried many times to get her grandfather a dog, but was always refused. She loved dogs. The house was big, three stories, but no basement. Who would want to be below the sea? It had a small house attached to the side, where the girl stayed. Only two stories, it was small but never cramped. She would only ever cook in the Big House. Her grandmother couldn’t but mostly wouldn’t cook. She tried to get her to, but failed at every attempt. Her grandmother did buy the finest pottery though- never to cook with, only to serve with. As she got older, she got lonely. Her cousins stopped coming, and there were no more long days at the beach filled with sunburn and sand. Instead, at night, she looked at the storms on the sea. She loved watching a far-off section of the dark sky light up with lightning. It was close enough for anyone who looked to see, but far enough away that most people didn’t look. She tried to find meaning in being able to watch the clouds light up, but realized, the sky did not light up for her. Sometimes, when the days were too short, she would stand on the beach at night. None of the houses had lights on at night, so all the stars were visible. On those nights, she realized that sometimes you can’t appreciate some things until something else is taken away. When she closed her eyes, the sand felt harsher against her bare feet, the cold wind was quicker, the ocean was louder, and the clouds did not light up for her. She turned around again and looked at the Big House. Staring at the house, she slowly backed into the sea. Her feet sunk deeper into the sand the closer she got to the cold water. The shells became harsh against her calloused feet and the wind pushed her hair into her eyes, but it was ok, she didn’t need to see, the sky did not light up for her. She kept backing into the water, the current seemed to pull her closer to the moon. She’d been to the beach ever since she was born, she knew not to fight the current, as it would only pull her in deeper, but she wanted to be pulled deeper, she wanted to go below the sea, she wanted to be wrapped in the triangle of light the moon gave. So, she closed her eyes, kneeled, let the cold envelope her sunburned skin, and didn’t worry about tracking sand into the house. Her grandfather would be happy, no more sand.
Bishop Lusink, Grade 12, Sunset Island
Lauren Novellas, Grade 10
Addie Vohs, Grade 11
Finny Roach, Grade 10, June
Holly Smith, Grade 9, The Fallen Angel
Lily Puricelli, Grade 11
Blair Maner, Grade 11
Ansley Stibbs, Grade 10, Night at the Museum
Get Up Charles Troutman Get up! Off the ground! Have you given in? Heinous half-hog; drenched in your own water. On the grim floor; a waste your life has been. Quitting your book, are you not her author?
Get up off the ground, you’re not that feeble; A mere pitcher of Kool-Aid breaks down walls. But you can’t? You do yourself fine evil. She’s your exclusive book! You have no Baals.
Get off your ground. Concuss all of your fears! Time shan’t slow; the
“Mississippi”s resume, So if you can’t see him, deploy your ears! To the swings of life, you can’t just adhere.
Get in the ring son! You clever cretin! Assure yourself - you’ll never be beaten.
Caki Staton, July 13th
Katie Maier, Grade 11, The Blonde Doll
Katie Maier, Grade 11, The Nesting Doll
Katie Maier, Grade 11, The Hem Measure
The Love We Almost Had Julia Jamison A little knowledge is a dangerous thing for a girl like me I start to picture what once was and then I think of what could be Put your picture in a frame, and my heart keeps spelling out your name A firefly lighting up my world, you told me I was your favorite girl So what made all the tides change? Because my heart still stayed the same Where did I go wrong? It’s still on repeat, our favorite song You’re the first one that I see and the peace in all my dreams And I hate that I crave it so bad All the love we almost had It’s been a while and we lost touch But I still drive by those places that meant so much I still see me in your passenger seat, so at home And now I find myself driving all alone Hoping you might call and maybe want to revisit it all I had everything all planned, now I’m just trying to understand I’m still right here where you left me Our secret spot under the oak tree You’re an instinct that always lingers, I still feel your touch at the tip of my fingers So did it not make you sad? To let go of all the love we almost had?
Liyam Merchant, Grade 10
Aashni Patel, Grade 11 The Electric Town
Wasswa Robbins, Grade 12
Mary Douglas Kollme, Grade 10
Finny Roach, Grade 10, Self Portrait No. 2
Katie Maier, Grade 11, The Frame
Aashni Patel, Grade 11, Untitled
Coffee Shop Parking Lot Julia Jamison I keep finding my way back to that coffee shop parking lot I keep telling myself it’s an accident I just really want a latte I like people watching under the trees of the shady parking spots But I know it’s no accident Some invisible force pulls me there like a siren call It’s not the caffeine I’m addicted to It's the idea that maybe you’ll be there That maybe you’ll be sipping your coffee in the window, sitting in that sweatshirt you always wear and when you see me, you’ll smile That maybe it can be our spot where for twenty minutes we can block out the world and it’s only us that maybe on some cold November night when the cappuccino can’t keep me warm enough that you could hold me close I can see it all laid out in front of me The little moments we could have occupy my daydreams Something always calls me back to that coffee shop parking lot The one where you always go I hope you would be in the window, at the hightop you always sit at The espresso you get matches the hazel of your eyes But I sit here waiting Waiting for the “what could have been’s” and “what if’s” and for now it’s only, lonely me And my white chocolate mocha In the coffee shop parking lot
Wasswa Robbins, Grade 12
Ansley Stibbs, Grade 10, Portrait Combined
Sadie Burge, Grade 12, Workload
Meghan Kahrs, Car
The Impact of A Moment Katherine O'Brien Alex, tortured by his solitude, scared of his future, walked past his old high school, with only himself to look after and worry about. His wounded pride caused by years of failure shown through his slow, dazed movements. All of a sudden, in the early morning dew, a young girl grazed the right side of his body and he instantly felt something signaling him to follow her. Alex’s mind started to wonder. Who was this girl? Why was she here? Was this a sign? He felt more of this force pulling him towards her, yet he could no longer see her for she had just vanished. As he walked, flashbacks of his childhood came to him as he now felt he had worth, despite being neglected by his single mother who had undoubtedly abused alcohol. This new girl brought mystery and a possibility for love and happiness, which Alex was extremely fond of due to the lack of such emotions in his past. Moments later, Alex found himself in the most unsettling of parking lots, alone with a girl he had just met. “This way,” she said, and without the slightest hesitation he followed. They climbed through the brush, covered in frost, and out of nowhere she pulled out a pink bandanna. “Do you trust me?” she said, with the slightest hint of excitement in her voice. “I guess, why not…?” Alex responded, his voice shaking. The young girl proceeded to place a blindfold over his eyes and stabilized him as they walked down to her “secret spot.” She led him into a small circular formation of trees and as Alex took his last step forward, he was taken aback as he felt a floating piece of fabric, a hammock, hung above him. She removed his blindfold and they both sat, enjoying each other’s company in the blissful silence of the morning. Each of them suddenly began to feel a force bring them together, as a faint line, almost white with a slight glow, appeared connecting their hearts. Without knowing, both Alex and this mysterious girl were officially linked by this profound force of nature, causing an exchange of physical pain and emotion. Alex, scared of these new feelings and possible failure in an aspect of his life he yet to explore, rose out of the hammock, and stepped away into a thicket of bushes. The trees suddenly grew to skyscrapers and a thick, dense forest separated the two latest lovers. After only mere seconds, the trees retreated back into the earth and there lay the girl, dead, with horrific marks all over her body, left
only for him to discover. Alex abruptly stopped in his tracks as similar marks began to form in the exact places along his body. Instantly taken over by a feeling of dizziness, he screamed for help, thinking he was the reason for her death, and vanished straight into thin air, because he had just taken the life of his soulmate.
Julia Hunt, Grade 10, Safari
Will LeCompte
Christine Lee, Grade 9, Apples
Kai Cunningham, Birdhouse Alex Hyman, Grade 10, Self Portrait
Stewart Key, Grade 11, Dove
Izzie Port, Grade 9, Leaf
The Truth About Tragedy Katie Maier My mother was fifteen when her father died of cancer. I could hide this fact in some maze of imagery and metaphor, as the poets do, but it might lose its truth in fiction. Fact is often more profound than language. My grandfather is now the dust that sits on a portrait from his days in the navy. The picture, framed with a square, wooden border, has forever stood on the third shelf of the living room bookcase. I must admit to you that my mother doesn’t clean it very often. The dust that coats it symbolizes only the time, and time means so little in this world. Neither my mother nor I needs his photographic immortalization in order to preserve a sense of immortality. My grandfather is somehow alive, although I never knew him in life. He still builds wooden mansions for his daughters’ Barbie dolls. He still puts a small evergreen tree on top of his house so that it looks like the living room Christmas tree is poking through the roof. He is still so charming, and so hardworking, that no one can help but to adore him. My mother still has her memories of him, and I have my own, even though mine are second-hand. It’s easy to get caught up in the unfortunate realities of what is gone and, in my case, what never could be. Fortune tends to be less concrete than misfortune. That’s why most pieces of literature end unhappily, with death or loss or heartbreak. Sadness generally defines stories the most clearly, and most profoundly, and most obviously. Truthfully, it defines much of the story I aim to tell, but it does not define it entirely. I was seventeen when I learned my mother had cancer. It didn’t take long for my mind to wander back to my second-hand memory of a girl who lost her father to the same disease forty years ago. I spent the entire day weeping, and my mother spent the entire day talking to me so that I wouldn’t have to cry in silence. My mother, herself, cried only for a short moment...not for fear of death, but for fear that her daughter’s life would be marked by death and a portrait forever sitting on her living room shelf. I don’t need fiction to tell you that my grandfather loves my mother, and that my mother loves me. Her life proves it, and there could be no better proof. In any case, I must let you know that my mother’s story is not a tragedy, but rather a story encompassing
tragedy. It cannot be forgotten that in the midst of, and perhaps in spite of, the tragic moments came the moments she spent with her daughter, and these moments contain a joy more profound than any sorrow that a novel could portray. If you knew my mother, I swear you would know it all. You would know that happiness defines her, and I define her happiness.
Katie Maier, Grade 11, The Form
Katie Maier, Grade 11, Technology
Margaret Hollingsworth, Grade 10, Coiled Vase
Sadie Burch, Grade 12, Discarded
Joshua Stewart, Grade 9, Laughter
Katie Maier, Grade 11, The Russian Nesting Doll
The Red Bowtie Ashley Marshall My entire life, I’ve possessed a peculiar ability to predict the future. I conduct my regular nighttime routine, fall asleep, and begin dreaming about events that haven’t happened yet. The dreams never consist of anything major, just insignificant events. Like my dream-self taking one step outside and knowing with certainty that it would rain later, even if there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Or waking up one morning with an inkling that the cafeteria will serve spaghetti for lunch. Lo and behold, five hours later, I find myself munching on a greasy meatball, speaking over the defining din of raindrops slapping the window outside. However, as time passed, my dreams intensified. They morphed from insignificant weather predictions to impossibly vivid details. How else would I have known that my sister’s fiancé would wear a red bowtie for her wedding in two years? Or that I would break my leg skiing over spring break? Every night, I prayed that these dreams would stop, fearful of seeing something I would inevitably regret like my future career or worse, my friends’ deaths. Thankfully, while the details became more vivid, they remained just that- details. Until the eve of my wedding night. On that fateful evening, my more-than-a-little-tipsy bridesmaids and I turned in relatively early, preparing for the long day ahead of us. Like every night before, the second I slipped between my conscious and subconscious worlds, the black oblivion of sleep melted around me to reveal a train station. The track ran between the platform and the wall containing a sign that read Lexington Square. Cracks ran up the brick on the opposite side of the track, and kudzu vines were beginning to sprout from the holes. I swear I heard a rat scampering around the garbage in the shadows. Laughter from the stairwell behind me broke my reverie. I turned to see my fiancé, Daniel and I descending the stairs, my fingers interlaced with his. I eyed the wedding ring on his finger and the wrinkles that were beginning to form around the corners of my mouth and on my forehead, wrinkles that certainly weren’t there this morning. I felt the train before I saw it. The rumbling tracks. The swaying overhead lights. The cascading dust from the ceiling. The horn pierced the rumbling silence like a knife slicing through flesh. My ears rang with the squeak of metal against metal, wheels against track.
Toeing the yellow caution line indicating the edge of the platform, I leaned over, glancing at the approaching train. Suddenly, I felt two strong hands on my back, pushing me off balance and onto the rickety metal below. Fear seizing my heart, I glanced up at Daniel, a sickening grin plastered on his face. I turned my head towards the oncoming train. Too late. The last thing I remember before impact was the bright yellow headlights engulfing my vision. I bolted upright in my bed, sweat dripping down my forehead. I haven’t dreamt since.
Sadie Burge, Grade 12, Umbilical Cord
Raquel Walkins, Grade 10, Uncertainty
Palmer Kloberdanz, Grade 9, Self Portrait
Katie Maier, Grade 11, Sleeping
Lucy Karem, Monoprint
Cana Roach, Grade 12, Coiled Vase Lauren Novellas
The Old Man and The Church Zack Minetola He woke. He built. He slept. Then he woke again. Obadiah Merchant was bound by fate to repeat the same day over and over again. Each day he woke, he forgot where he was. His face, although unseen, was unfamiliar, and nothing but desert surrounded him. All he knew were the slabs of wood, coupled with a bag of rusty, bent nails and a hammer laying on the ground. So, he built. He nailed every piece of wood he could. It was ironic; he didn't know what he was making, but his arms and legs seemed to waltz together, like lovers, over and over again, creating his masterpiece.
He'd wake.
He'd build. He'd sleep. Each morning the blazing sun woke Obadiah, and each of those mornings, he wished the sun's glaring rays were the light of Heaven. Obadiah was tired, dressed in rags, with gray, tattered hair falling below his eyes. His shoeless feet begged for mercy, and his hands were so blistered, the skin could no longer be seen. The pain would not stop him, though. Deep down, he knew the unfinished structure in front of him was built out of love, and to him, love outnumbered pain.
He woke.
He built. He slept. It wasn't until Obadiah's head hit his dusted pillow that he remembered. In those moments, before he fell into a deep slumber, Obadiah remembered his life. His wife, her quirky and radiant smile. The majestic swish of her favorite white dress when she'd run up and down the hallways. He remembered his daughter. Her high-pitched, infectious laugh. Her love of the stars and her obsession with the flowers in the garden. No matter how many times his daughter would pull his violet flowers from the ground, he did not feel anger. The joy they brought her was enough to make a father cry.
Obadiah tried to relish in the joyful memories, but no matter what he did, in those
final moments before he repeated the day, he remembered the pain of that fateful day. Whether it was fate or dumb luck, his horse carriage was raided by bandits— bandits too cowardly to show their faces but brave enough to slaughter innocent people. Obadiah remembered how he clutched his wife and daughter in his arms and cried. No, not cried; he wept, after each piercing scream. He just sat there, in the middle of the road, weeping: his life in ruins.
He'd wake.
He'd build.
He'd sleep.
After what felt like years of tiresome work, something called to him from inside
his finished Church. Two caskets, covered in white sheets; next to them was a third. Opened. Whispering for an owner. Obadiah's blistered body shuffled to it, and as he laid his head on its white pillow, he released a single tear. A man full of grief had finally come to peace. He did not desire death, but it seemed the pain of living had become worse than death itself.
He slept.
He did not wake.
Ryan Cauwenberghs, Grade 12, Church
Sadie Burge, Grade 12, Tension
Lily Puricelli, Grade 11, Cake Plate