The Signature 2016 Every year, The Lovett School produces The Signature, a publication
where students can showcase their writing and artistic talents. This year's Signature was put together by editor, Claire Doyle.
From painting, mixed media, printmaking, and photography, to short
stories. The Signature features a diverse range of student work from The
Lovett Upper School. Special thanks to Johnathan Newman, Amy Lee Story, Ashley Schick, Mr.Z, and Karey Walter.
Rumor By: Alton Wiggers *I would like to apologize for any language that may be offensive. I felt it was most effective for the perspective of the writing, but in no way reflects my own beliefs. * He is no faggot. My brother is a good kid, a great kid, and certainly was not back behind the gym with Edward Phillips. Sure they’re friends, and Phillips is a bit queer, but my brother isn’t like that. He hangs out with Ed, but that’s because my brother is a nice guy, he wouldn’t judge a kid like that, but he is no faggot. Stacy Anderson told me she heard from Quint Michaels that Scott Johnson and Martin Lin saw my brother and Ed making out back behind the gym where all the buses park. Those guys are full of shit. Since when can the words of Scott Johnson and Martin Lin be trusted? Everyone knows they were the kids who were pretending they knew David Bowie, saying he came to Scott’s house for Christmas every year. There’s not an ounce of candor in those twerps’ bodies, but nevertheless, the whole school is still talking about my brother and that little queer Ed Phillips. Sure my brother likes to act. Everyone seems to be pointing that out. Acting never made a faggot out of anyone, especially not my brother. He’s just good with words and has a knack for lines and such. He doesn’t play effeminate rolls either. He’s always playing the guys like Julius Caesar or Hamlet, characters all the ladies like. They had David Peterson play the maid in Romeo and Juliet and nobody has called him a fag. Where’s the justice in that? People really haven’t paid any attention at all. A big guy like my brother, a linebacker on the football team, a good one too, isn’t fooling around with Ed Phillips. They really have no idea what a straight guy looks like do they? A good, Christian, straight guy? My brother is in church every Sunday. He’s a part of school’s vestry, which is more than
those rumor-spreading losers, Scott Johnson and Martin Lin, can say. They’d really accuse a godly man like my little brother of kissing another guy? I bet they haven’t even read the Bible. They don’t know a thing about it. I bet Scott Johnson would sooner kiss Ed Phillips than my brother. Martin Lin would too. So would Quint Michaels or David Peterson. Stacy would be smooching on that girl Lexa Reed before my brother would kiss a boy. Hell, I’d be kissing a boy before him. Then if my brother did kiss a boy, if he ever did, then the lot of them can damn themselves because my brother, he’s a good kid, a great kid, and I’ll love him anyways.
brianna boardman
ivey redding
Photography
claire dame
eliza fillo
brackett hardy
brackett hardy
anna duffy
ivey redding
thomas flournoy
brittany bonifice
claire doyle
reagan williams
On the Wings of Chaos By: Therese Carter I see butterflies everywhere I go, around every person I see. They surround the person in a hazy cloud, flickering in and out, some flying in lazy loops and others in frantic dives. Bright with happiness, dark with sorrow, or something in between. Fractured, splintered visions of futures that have been, are, or will be. I see everything. I can’t remember when I suddenly became the person holding all the cards, cards that people didn’t even know they were holding. You would think that I would want to run screaming from humanity and spend my life in the nearest desert, but life’s funny sometimes. If I’m alone, the air is too empty. So, I’ve become used to the flickering visions. Today, the forecast has called for rain again and people hurry down the sidewalks with umbrellas in hand. My eyes glance over a woman across the street, arms full of groceries. Two butterflies separate and dance across my vision. If she takes the right, a coming taxi will splash yesterday’s rainwater on her, and she’ll get sick. If she takes the left, she’ll get a ride home from a friend. I stop, watching for her decision. Take the left, take the left. She does, and my shoulders loosen. Continuing on, I relax further as my feet round familiar corners, finally stopping in my favorite park. Situated between the street and a bank of townhomes, the park is usually semicrowded, the larger park and playground three blocks over being the more popular attraction. With the threat of rain keeping everyone inside, though, I reach my favorite tree without seeing anybody. The tree has the leafiest branches in the park, and its whispering leaves are almost always comforting. Almost.
“Can you help me?” My peace is broken and my eyes flicker open to see a girl about seven or eight standing in front of me. She’s dressed for the weather, and her neon blue raincoat and boots stand out against the stormy sky. Her futures swim against my vision and the disorientation forces me to look away. It’s minutes before I stand up. “Where’re your parents?” “I dunno. But my doll’s missing.” Inwardly, I sigh and she tugs my hand, forcing me to really look down at her. What I see causes my stomach to drop. The immediate futures I see – she’s hurt in them. She’s alone or with someone who’s not fast enough to protect her. If I go with her… There’s nothing the doctors could do. She’s gone. I told her what would happen. I told her what I saw! No, no… Never again. The future… the future isn’t meant to be changed. I can’t, not again. I won’t. With that old promise echoing in my head, I’m stuck. She sees my indecision and gently extricates her hand from mine before turning away. My mind clears, and I tap her shoulder. If there’s even the slightest chance to fight, I have to take it. “Come on. Let’s find that doll.”
seth rogers
may may lanier
senaidra reynolds
claire biggerstaff
allie lourie
devyn edelstien
olivia davie
brackett hardy
sutton dunlap
dana worthheimer
taylor schonberg brianna boardman
adelaide medford
francesca deweerdt
francesca deweerdt
mary frances johnson
A Professionally Written Anecdote By: Harrison Lyle My friend wanted to submit a story for the annual high school short short story contest. He said he wanted to do it as a joke. Since it would be anonymous, he could write whatever he wanted. We joked, “You should just write a story about a dog crossing the street and throw in words like ‘equivocally’ or ‘pugnacious’ once in awhile to make it sound legitimate.” I did not even know what those words meant, but I knew they sounded fancy and would grasp the attention of the judges. After all, it is really all about what the judges think, and if you can trick them, you win a $100 prize. It could not be that difficult to trick three high school English teachers. Well, at least, that is what we thought. This was a challenge that would turn out to be far greater than we expected. First we went to the drawing table. We decided to go against the rules and write the short story together. If we were going to do this, it was going to be a team effort. Pugnacious. Hours went by, and still we came up with nothing that was worthy enough to hoodwink these darned judges. What about extreme detail? Judges drool for over-developed detail about insignificant events. As we pondered the idea, the sun beamed down on the table through the hazy octagonal shaped window, which made a glare into the left lens of my glasses. This momentary ray of luminescence distracted me from the detail-oriented proposal, and we disposed of the unwieldy concept. At the end of the evening, it looked as if we were, instead of competing in a story contest, competing for a drawing competition, as our papers were full of elaborate sketches and doodles. We were not getting anywhere. The funny thing was that we had no issue coming up with jokes mocking this
whole process, and how easy it would be to write a story about what typically seems to be something so simple. “How about we write a story about how our urine splashes against the rim of a toilet?” Or maybe, “A story about eating fluffy pancakes.” These ideas would provide for a quick chuckle, but not much else. The deadline for the contest submissions was fast approaching and we had barely come up with a concept. His interest was dampening, as was mine. Finally, he threw in the towel. I figure that he became tired of the gimmick and would have preferred a fully fleshed out and serious piece. I couldn’t blame him, but at the same time I wasn’t capable of writing a clever and perceptive narrative, or so I thought. I then had a realization. The English teacher who announced the contest in the first place suggested to either write about fictional narratives or personal narratives disguised as fiction. That light-bulb moment brought me to this very point in time. Equivocally. Can I have my $100 now?
claire biggerstaff
jane matthews
ellie fallon
stephi howard
anna schwazkopf
fontaine gwynn
eliza fillo
caroline huger
claire dame
sam bayne
claire tobin
carson lindauer
ned feininger
caroline deborde
estĂŠe park brittany bonifice
peyton bogard caroline stevens
julia taylor
claire kenan
The Progressive School By: Katie Krantz The woman and the school were equally sleek. Her hair and the metal exterior both shined: their luster was unnatural in the most pristine sense. Her heels clicked against the dark wood floors, and she gestured with her long, black nails to the various facets of the building, to classrooms, pods and such. “With the integration of intravenous knowledge in our schools came the alarming insight that youth these days just aren’t hungry for knowledge.” As she spoke, her matte lipstick began to crack, just hairline fractures that repaired themselves when she clacked her tombstone teeth back together for a moment, a second of silence. “We attempted to rectify the issue by removing food from the lunchroom, and replacing it with a grey nutritional supplement. They didn’t seem to notice. In fact, we were getting higher ratings of satisfaction than before.” She laughed as though she were a genius. When her head shook, her hair stayed perfectly still atop it, perched like a bird. She clicked and clacked on towards the lunch room, where lines of grey-ish students shuffled towards grey lunches being distributed with the precision of a vaccine. As soon as we were close enough to notice the bags under their eyes, she whipped us away towards her state of the art library complex. It was the structure meant to hold up the cables that carried the school’s data. “After the library had been completely covered in the fiber optic cables, we had to stop students from excavating books for fear they’d alter the structural integrity of the whole setup. We’re hoping the books will one day fossilize so that we can mine gilt-edged veins of ink-stone, perhaps to tile the bathrooms.” The cracks disappeared and reappeared. As she gestured to the slivers of pages
coming out of the mass of cables, her silver bracelets became audible. Eventually, she herded the group of dazed parents towards the classrooms, and we shuffled along to halls where students studied. She pushed open the door with a pale, bony hand, and the light from our side poured in, illuminating students slathered in dark brown. A puff of warm air breathed against our faces as we, the curious potential money-givers, peered in. As soon as everyone had their voyeuristic fill, she slammed the door shut and stood in front of it, facing us. “We’ve had to preemptively erase all form of dress code to prevent conflict. Rather than wear uniforms, the students slather themselves in mud. The heating bill has risen astronomically. It also seemed that the fluorescent lights were causing student depression, so we’ve swapped it for total darkness. Any questions?” The woman stared us down, daring us to challenge her with anything as obsolete as logic or concern. Next to me, my wife leaned in close to my ear. “This seems perfect for Jeremy!”
emma montag
thomas flournoy
lindy gearon sutton dunlap
seth rogers
carson lindauer
olivia davie
grace hill
alden shiverick
lauren rausaw
jordan budd
marshall johnson
ned feininger
caroline carr grant
greer pritchard
allie lourie
grace hill
harriet knox
grace raulet
desi lapoole
Days Like This By: Arnav Rajdev November 11, 1965: 4:12 PM: I have a thing for days like this. The windsurfing through the atmosphere at the perfect speed, the moderate sun at its pinnacle, and the lime-green grass littered around the surrounding area. It all makes me feel at home. The muddy ground seeps over the edge of my camo trousers, as I settle down behind a dirt mound. I let out a demoralizing grunt of satisfaction as the dirt bleeds into me. You know, if you listen close enough, a bird’s song sounds a lot like a gathering of human people; something I have sorely missed. 4:37 PM: I move my forearm up to my shirt pocket, shrugging off the stinging pain, and pull out my favorite image: a picture of my wife and kids. I still remember the day we took this picture, it was a stormy day, quite the opposite of today, and the clouds hung like fruit on tree. My daughter tripped and fell on her way into the studio, but she did not let that deter her from giving the cameraman “the biggest smile ever!” She had marked that day for months. 5:11 PM: My hand slithers down to my shiniest trinket of all. It is what kept my life going for so long, but will also, ultimately, end it. I ran my fingers down the item as I let out another sigh of defeat. The pace of the wind is quickening, and the sun is beginning to loosen its grasp on the pasty sky. I stare at some squirrels, who seem to scurry away in harmony. It sounds like the drum roll at my daughter’s concert, but it isn’t. I know what it is.
5:19 PM: For a rather disorganized army, the Viet Cong sure had a forte for marching in unison. I let out another grunt. Everything stopped. I unclip a box from my trinket, and stuff it with the last 17 silver capsules I got off my friend after he was hit by one. I clip the box back into my trinket. 5:31 PM: I rub my finger over my now dusty photograph, and clutch my trinket by the handle, as I begin to rise above the dirt amount “This is for you”, I whisper. They think I’m dead. I tossed my trinket out after I let my final silver caps loose. My story ends with that anyway. They are going to walk over here to see if I’m dead any second now. I do not understand what he’s saying. Probably something about, why I’m furiously writing in a dusty notebook, with a picture in my other hand. The click is loud, and I can feel his sight bearing down the gun barrel. Life around seemed to resume again, and it was truly magical. I felt the wind in my face for one last time, as I rubbed the picture. I have a thing for days like thi--.
claire doyle
Painting and Printmaking
peyton bogard
abbi goldberg
evie johnson
seth rogers
brittany butler stella richman
alina buckley elizabeth beveridge
The Holy Congress By: Shiv Daftari “SILENCE!!!” The heat above Mexico City was stifling. Gabriel sighed as Quetzalcoatl slammed the gavel against the podium. He looked across the assembly. Zeus and Shiva were in an intense discussion while Osiris looked bored behind them. He looked at today’s agenda. Plenary session: 2016-2018 Committee Sessions: 2019-2023 Lunch: 2024 Committee Sessions: 2025-2028 “Great only an hour for lunch,” Jesus said under his breath. Gabriel turned around. “I don’t understand why all this is necessary,” he said to no one in particular. The Holy Congress was created after millennia of religious war and persecution. Each religion was granted seats and voting power based off of devotees and such. The extinct religions still got 2 seats and 1 vote. Gabriel realized everyone was taking his or her seats. He quickly shuffled over to the section under the banner spelling CHRISTIANITY. Quetzalcoatl began to stand up. Gabriel looked and sighed. Ever since the Aztecs had been voted to chair the next Congress, there seemed to be a distinct lack of decorum. Quetzocuatal spoke, “Now that everyone is seated let’s begin. First I would like to congratulate everyone on a successful century. We achieved space travel, two world wars, nuclear weapons, couple of tsunamis, and some earthquakes so nice job everyone!” The assembly began to thunder in applause. “Now the first topic of the agenda will be debated on
the floor. Will the presenter please stand?!” An imam shuffled to the stage. “The Islamic faith takes issue with Donald Trump and his repeated speeches of hate against many people of different races and faiths. We ask the assembly to hand the death penalty to Donald Trump!” The room erupted. The other gods and deities began to shout. “SILENCE!!!” screamed Quetzalcoatl, “Do we have a counter presenter?” Jupiter stood and made his way to the front. His lightning bolt was dangerously on edge. “The Roman gods agree the man is a buffoon; however, killing him is not the answer. It would leave a dangerous precedence.” Amaterasu, Japanese Goddess of the Sun, rose, “Jupiter is correct. We did not intervene when Hitler was in power and we cannot do the same now.” Yahweh jumped to his feet from the corner, “Easy for you to say. I lost 8 seats in this Congress alone because we didn’t intervene!” Gabriel shook his head. These squabbles never get us past anything. Over the past couple of decades the only resolutions past are mostly either scientific advancements or population checks. He winced as Thor threw his hammer at Raphael. Across the room, Hades threw is pitchfork at Odin. Gabriel stood up towards the food table where Lakshmi was standing. His heart rose to his throat when he saw her. “Ah, Gabriel. Got tired of the fighting I assume,” Lakshmi smirked with that slight Indian accent that drove Gabriel crazy. “W-well I uh, kinda just wanted to get out of there,” Gabriel stammered while pulling on his tie. “Well I got a place not far from here. Why don’t we go hang out? Vishnu doesn’t get back for a while,” Lakshmi winked. In the entire clamor, no one noticed the goddess and angel slip out of the assembly room. “I’m going to miss my committee meeting,” thought Gabriel.
neal irby
mimi bordeaux
grey shiverick
mimi bordeax
charlie woodall
megan mcgarrity
virginia matthews
meg mccartney
henry sharp
evans schneider virginia matthews
harrison jones
elizabeth beveridge
david izard
kelsey watson
The Boys in Blue By: Jenna Brown There were only two types of lowlifes who followed people down the street at this hour. Criminals and cops. I was unsure which would give me more trouble. I was a black man living in America. My skin would attract a cop before my actions did. I kept my tired gaze straight ahead, smoothed my pants, and rolled up my sleeves. Making it clear to whoever it was that I had nothing to hide. I groggily rubbed at my eyes to wake myself up. “Where are you going?” an excited voice shouted from behind me. I continued to walk. My silence was met with laughter. It wasn’t soon before someone stepped in front of me. The first thing my eyes registered was his badge. It glowed in the streetlight. He was quickly joined by another man. They stared at me with the same dark, beady eyes that seemed to be required of cops. The second officer wasted no time in questioning me, “What are you doing on the streets at this hour?” Despite my best efforts, my heavy tongue made my words come out a little slurred. “I was just heading to pick up some cold medicine from the pharmacy.” “The pharmacy?” He laughed and the other cop joined in. “A haggardlooking fellow like you is heading to the pharmacy at 2 A.M.?” Ok. I was wearing ratty sweatpants, an old tshirt, and a backpack. And I was sick. My eyes had a glaze shinier than Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I wasn’t looking too hot. “You see sir, I’m sick.” I cleared my congested throat. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was going to
pick up some Nyquil.” “Where’d you come from?” “My dorm.” “You’re a student?” “Yes.” He didn’t seem to like that answer. He tore his eyes away from mine, and began looking me up and down. Searching for something that wasn’t there. Alarmed, I nervously watched the other officer. He smiled. The searching officer's eyes finally settled on my backpack. His eyes lit up like burning crosses. He had found his smoking gun. The other officer could sense the shift and was visibly twitching. I had never been so terrified. “Take off the bag.” He spoke with such entitlement. As if it was already his. It wasn’t fair. The cold fear resting in my chest was quickly joined by fierce courage. I didn’t move. He had expected that. Without hesitation the man at his side grabbed my shoulders and forced me to the ground. A forearm found its way around my neck and began to slowly and forcefully squeeze. I tried to scream, but my dwindling air supply wouldn’t allow it. I could hear my bag being emptied onto the street. Silent tears began to spill onto my cheeks and pool on the pavement before I lost consciousness. I woke up alone on the street. Lying in a pool of my belongings next to my backpack. Its barren emptiness was nothing compared to the state of my heart.
joe calloway
joanna lummus
piper rackley
meg mccartney
gracie womack annie mayfield
harrison jones
virginia matthews
caroline carr grant
ellie mcdaniel
ashley wright sarah followill
Bananaless By: Evan Mercer Before her morning jog, Jamie sat at her kitchen table, accompanied by two scrambled eggs and a homemade smoothie. She held up the front page of the newspaper and read: MODIFIED BANANA SEED FAILS AGAINST DESTRUCTIVE FUNGUS. The article discussed how genetic modifications to the Cavendish seed had been unable to combat the mysterious botanical disease that had broken out so suddenly. Truthfully, Jamie didn’t mind that it had failed. She didn’t want anyone rushing to approve banana seeds that could potentially turn her kids into four headed monsters that had bananas for hands and banana peels for hair. Jamie remembered a few weeks ago, when she first read the article on the banana crisis in the back of the World News section. She tried to recall what the front-page headline had been that day but couldn’t. It probably had something to do with the Pope’s favorite color or a newborn panda rolling over for the first time. Why had the little article been stuck in the little corner written in the little print? She guessed it didn’t really matter now that the whole world knew. Jamie thought of how easily half a banana had sweetened her morning kale smoothies. Mangos and pineapples were good too, but they didn’t provide the same thickness and had a tendency to be too acidic. Until she read the article, Jamie had never heard of the Panama Disease, and never imagined a world without bananas. With little forewarning, the destructive fungus spread through the soil of South America, North America, Africa, South East Asia, and every other banana producing region, killing each banana plant and making it impossible to regrow. Jamie thought about the repercussions from the industries’ collapse: Job loss, closing businesses, tanking economies, political instability, famine, and the worlds last banana being sold for millions of dollars on eBay. But Jamie, although she wouldn’t admit it, was most disappointed by the fact that her smoothies were not as thick and not as sweet.
Jamie also couldn’t help but grieve over the potential loss of an entire subsection of slapstick comedy. The shape of the fruit itself could make people laugh. Not many foods had that power. Jamie was taken back by the possibility of future generations being unacquainted with such a positive part of her daily life. Even though a banana was, sometimes, just a banana, the next generation would be certain that their friend was, in fact, just happy to see them because the idea of a banana in one’s pocket would have faded away with the sweetness of Jamie’s smoothies, unless, of course, we adapted and synthesized a banana seed strong enough to fight its predator while maintaining the integrity of its forefather. Jamie thought we would but decided not to dwell on it. Besides, the smoothie didn’t taste that bad after all. She walked outside and began to jog, submersing herself in morning traffic and the stable rhythm of her feet, confident that she would not slip on a stray banana peel.
sam bayne
thomas flournoy