Tapestry 2017

TAPESTRY 2017

Tapestry 2017 ARCHMERE ACADEMY’S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS MAGAZINE Avenue Q Kyle McIntyre ’17

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

Tapestry 2017 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Newton Lauren Chua ’18

Blooming Garden, sculpture, Sophia Alvarez ’20...........………........................................................... cover Avenue Q, photograph, Kyle McIntyre ’17…………...................………….....................................…….... 1 Newton, charcoal, Lauren Chua ’18………………………………………………...…....................…...... 2 Beneath the Willow Tree, Jessica Pei ’20…………………...…………………...........................…............... 3 Wading Reflection, photograph, Kathryn Slomski ’17………………...........……...............................….... 3 9th Grade Experience, Emily Ambler ’20 ...................................................................................................... 4 Topsy-turvy, mixed media, Nikoleta Testa ’18............................................................................................... 4 White Noise, Revisited, Keelin Reilly ’17 ...................................................................................................... 5 Untitled Detail, sculpture, Anneliese Parenti ’19 ........................................................................................... 5 Silhouette of Hope, medium, Alexa Reilly ’17 ............................................................................................. 6 Forget Me Not, Caroline Donavan ’19 ............................................................................................................ 6 Hall of Mammals, Hall of Bones, Emma Stovicek ’17 .................................................................................. 9 Don’t Go, Tori Mock ’17 ................................................................................................................................. 10 Pondering, photograph, Sanjana Malik ’17 ................................................................................................ 10 Sweta, Olivia O’Dwyer ’17 ............................................................................................................................ 11 Vulnerable, Caroline Donavan ’19 ................................................................................................................. 12 Composition, photograph, Leah DaCosta ’18 ............................................................................................. 12 Hide and Seek, Caroline Donavan ’19 .......................................................................................................... 13 Crickets, Keelin Reilly ’17 ……………………....................................................................................…… 14 Reflection, photograph, Ryan Padien ’18 …………............................……...........................…...……..… 14 Water Lilies, Emma Stovicek ’17 .................................................................................................................... 15 Saltine Crackers, Tori Mock ’17 .................................................................................................................... 16 Untitled, colored pencil, Jacob Gehrt ’20 ..................................................................................................... 16 After the Supoxi Wars, Charlie Liston ’17 ................................................................................................... 17 Navy Beans, John Jordan ’80 ......................................................................................................................... 18 Crabfeast, acrylic, Bria Nixon ’17 ................................................................................................................. 18 Grief, Tully Liu ’19 ......................................................................................................................................... 19 Contemplation #309, Elise Brady ’20……………….….....…..................................…………..........……. 20 Silhouette Shadow, photograph,, Makala Wang ’17….....…...............................…....……...…….......…. 20 Seventeen Magazine Presents: A Guide to Modern Love, by Gina Grossman: A Satire, Katherine Alberta ’19………………………......................................…….….............................................................… 21 Bolner Imagines Heaven, Joe Bolner ’17.............................................................................................. 23 We’ll Miss You, Coach Ambrogi, watercolor, Alex Conrad ’18.................................................................23 Leaving Archmere: A Study in the Senses, Sophie Singh ’17.……………………....……..……...….…. 24

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Beneath the Willow Tree Silver wings gliding to and fro like cherry blossom petals fluttering in the wind.

Landing delicately upon the glistening dew.

A rainbow of scales jumping gracefully out of the water.

Lilliputian elves dancing around the mushrooms.

Their laughter filling the air with the mellifluous tinkle of notes intertwined perfectly together like a jigsaw puzzle, in harmony.

Wading Reflection Kathryn Slomski ’17

The waterfall cascading into the crystalline lake sparkling in the sunlight.

What an ethereal land that awaits us beneath the willow tree.

Jessica Pei ’20

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9th Grade Experience The “9th grade experience” is something everyone has been through It’s being thrown into a giant fish tank Sharks, dolphins, tuna, swim all around you They all know what they’re doing and what needs to get done They know how to survive Who to avoid, who to befriend How to behave, what to wear But you’re the tiny fish A minnow even And you were just picked up from your home Your comfortable, safe home And thrown into a new one and expected to survive You swim around confused for a while Lost, clueless, scared But eventually you start to find your way And the tank doesn’t seem that big And the other fish aren’t that scary You stop missing your old home And one day you’ll look around at the four glass walls And realize how great your new one actually is Emily Ambler ’20

Topsy-turvy Nikoleta Testa ’18

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White Noise, Revisited !

After Don DeLillo !

The boy sat at the kitchen table, reading the paper. The sound of water moving through pipes overhead thudded about him, the sprinkler outside spouted onto the browning blades and yellowed leaves of a backyard parched by 90 degree September days and methodical drought. What good is watering a lawn now after a month of drought, the boy thought cynically, looking out at the faded greens and browns. He turned to the death of elsewhere, casually scanning the headlines and pictures of the day’s news. “War…Syria…Trump…War.” He flipped the pages and read some more. The father walked in with a haughty air, and seeing his son pointed to the full dishwasher. Get it done, he said, and without further explanation walked out, keys in hand. The boy sighed, deftly folded the picture of a lifeless boy on some distant shore, and got up. Before going to complete his task, he flipped on the radio. Power on, FM frequency, increase volume, slowly turn dial to desired station, carefully adjust back a little, forward a little, watch the yellow signal light. Jangled slogans and snatches of tunes blurted forth from the brown box. The boy settled on a station and then went to the washer. Forgotten songs of a bygone era poured forth into the room. He pulled out the lower rack, sending dishes clashing and clanging, but before proceeding with the chore stopped. He listened intently. Underneath the music there was something intangible, a barely perceptible crackle and roar. The boy groaned and walked over to the radio. !

His parents, in a moment of supreme ineptitude and economy, had placed their radio next to the family’s cordless telephone. Since then, no matter how minutely one tussled with the radio dial, there had always been an underlying static in the sound, the peculiar mingling of waves and radiation from two digital diversions competing for attention. The mechanical frequency of an automated cruise-ship-trip salesman blending with Chrysler Dodge and Ram’s hottest new deals; the politician calling home to rally a vote harmonizing with Stephen Stills “Love the One You’re With”; it could be anything and everything or nothing at all.

The boy didn’t know. He only knew there was some corrupting sound souring the music, the unlocatable roar of interference. He switched the station in disgust, he repositioned the two devices at differing lengths and angles; he had no luck. He turned the radio off and put a CD into the player, located in the same device as the radio. Sitting down and closing his eyes, he let the sounds of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” wash over him. Suddenly he fixed his stare upon the source of the sound.

The CD player, supposedly pure and disconnected from the radio waves and telecommunication transmissions whirring through the air, was emitting a methodical hum under Debussy’s meditation on celestial bodies. It was dull yet

piercing, a mechanical wail. Rising, the boy moved the phone away from CD player. The hum rose in pitch and volume as the phone slid across the counter. !

The father walked into the kitchen, looking for something essential he had seemingly forgotten for his trip, and found his son furiously clearing space and stretching the radio cord while vocalizing nonsensical vulgarities at the phone.

The hell? Go to your room now, said the father. The boy, realizing his madness, dropped his antics and stormed away in a huff. Scratching his head at this peculiar outburst, the father noticed the still-full dishwasher and began unloading it himself. Switching on the radio, he hummed along as a forgettable artist sang a forgettable song about love or some other nonsense. He was accompanied by, as always, the same inescapable static. Happily ignorant, the father completed the chore as the last few chords rang out. His hearing had dulled long ago.

Keelin Reilly ’17

Untitled detail Anneliese Parenti ’19

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Forget Me Not !

I remember kneeling in the dusty black mulch, emitting a foul yet

pleasant smell that reminded me both of overflowing garbage cans and joyful playgrounds, outside of my red brick house. The toasty sunlight mingled with the peeling paint on the red shutters; I placed my palm against the rough face of the brick, and I imagined my dad’s shadow of stubble, rubbing against my cheek on Saturday mornings. I held on to the feeling as I swayed with the delicate breeze. !

I tried to balance on the bare, supple soles of my feet; I dug my big

toes, crested with threads of blonde hair, into the moist, crummy dirt. “He loves me, he loves me not,” I whispered through my teeth as I plucked a soft blue petal away from its twins. I lost balance; I teetered like an unbalanced seesaw, and gravity familiarized my butt with the spongy ground. “Ufff,” I exhaled. “He loves me,” I repositioned and sat crisscross applesauce style, “he loves me not.” Another petal drifted to the ground. I remember the day in the mulch, nestled in a private alcove of my front yard, clinging to a pale blue flower – the forget me not – and a moment of hope, fantasy, and magic. *** !

The hum of the bus’ engine fought for dominance over the rain,

tapping against the windows. “Let me in,” the droplets beckoned.

Slumped against the cushion seat in the coach bus, I watched the raindrops chase each other in a game of tag across the windowpane. The beads of rain morphed into each other to create an interesting dance upon the glass.

If I squinted through the rain and fog, I could make out the silhouettes of

Silhouette of Hope Alexa Reilly ’17

the Alaskan mountains. The range held the inlet in the crook of its elbow as the wind surfers ruled and manipulated the white capped waves. The moan of the speaker, speckled with scratchy pockets of lost words, reeled me away from the entertaining windsurfers. “Here’s some trivia for you,” our personal bus driver’s deep voice thundered through the bus. “What’s Alaska’s state flower?” Out of our small group of eight high school

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students, none of us cared enough about the state flower to take a guess; I turned

might as well have been Mount Everest. Fueled by three hours of sleep, we

my attention back to the thrill seeking windsurfers.

clawed our way to the “top” of the mountain. In truth, Cody sadly admitted his

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disappointment; we only reached the first ridge. In spite of Cody’s negativity, we

Our adorable biology teacher, wrapped in a puffy mint colored jacket and

knit cap, sputtered a few scientific names. The names could have been a foreign

embraced our own version of the summit. I dangled my feet in the dirt and

tongue in my ears; I had a slim knowledge of flowers. “No….” he taunted, “any

inhaled the Alaskan air, devoid of car gasoline and aromas from fast food

more guesses?” We responded with silence. “The Myosotis alpestris.” Once

restaurants. I observed Orca Inlet below and the eagle’s eye view of the old

again: silence. He made eye contact with me through the reflective review mirror,

harbor. From above, the numerous fishing boats looked like bright dollops of

“The forget me not.” Suddenly, he caught my attention. An inexplicable shudder

color on a painter’s pallet. The beauty grabbed my tongue, silenced my words,

washed over me. The moment seemed too perfect and deliberate, like the

and seized my eyes. Alaska. Beauty. Indescribable. The bright blue water of Orca

unexpected meeting of soul mates in a cheesy, romantic movie. My science teacher

Inlet, the pure air, the raw beauty of the fishing boats, the patches of moss climbing

bubbled with enthusiasm, “Wow! I never knew that,” she exclaimed. “Yep,” the

the face of the mountain, all seemed to whisper in unison, “Forget me not.”

driver retorted. “Now, you’ll never forget Alaska.” He winked in the rear view

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mirror with a grin revealing years of gathering smile lines. The wink was meant

the mountains. Enjoying the solitude and Mother Nature’s giant playground, we

for all of the students, all eight of us, but I felt connected to the wink. The wink

skated across the slick mud in our sneakers. Minuscule bugs, names unknown,

was meant for me. I shook off the perfectness of the moment. I peered out the

living by the rise and fall of the tide, floated in waves. Moving in unison and

window, suddenly imagining meadows of forget me nots instead of seas of rolling

harmony, like a scarf fluttering through the wind, the bugs revealed their unusual

waves.

beauty; they threw their words against the wind in a high-pitched staccato

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harmony, “Forget me not, forget me not, forget me not!”

Hours later, after a final day of excursion and adventure in the great land of

A few days later, we spontaneously conquered the mud lands, framed by

Alaska, I sat in the airport. My knees hugged to my chest, and my headphones

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jammed in my ears, I struggled to stay awake. Determined to fulfill my noble duty

Hartney Bay. A river of fresh mountain water split the rocks and separated us

of guarding the luggage, I observed my sleeping comrades. Eight days of

from the overhanging mountains. Compelled by the spontaneous ambiance of

unforgettable adventure visible on their fatigued faces, stained sweatshirts, and

Alaska, I decided to dunk myself in the river in a fashion similar to baptism. The

discolored bruises. We all emitted a stench, both figuratively and literally. A

frigid mountain runoff sank into my shoes and sliced through my thin leggings.

stench of newfound perspective and courage. A stench of fresh salmon and burnt

The cold overwhelmed my senses in a unique, peaceful way. Before I lost courage,

firewood. A stench of determination, adventure, and magic. And, of course, a

I shut my eyes tightly and sank beneath the mirror surface. The crisp water took

stench of sweat.

my breath away; the rush of stream water thundered over my head and into my

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ears. The current slurred its words, “Forget me not.” I needed oxygen, “Forget me

The lyrics to Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” reminded me of the flower – the

Leaving the bugs to die in the rising tide, we ventured to a hidden corner of

forget me not. The light, precious tone of the music, in my mind, intertwined

not!” The current screamed in panic as I rocketed through the surface. I barely

perfectly with the natural, humble beauty of the flower. Images of the flower and

wiped my eyes before I high stepped out of the water and abandoned the voices of

our trip floated through the air on an infinite reel of memories; my mind

the current.

disappeared.

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memory reel. Still in deep slumbers, my friends snuggled with the carpeted,

Cody, our trusty guide, drove us to the base of a mountain on our first day

An abrupt snore sling-shotted me back into the airport, pausing the

in Cordova, Alaska. “Time for a hike,” he claimed. In his mind, he observed the

airport floor. I checked the time. One hour before boarding. I sank back into the

mountain as a grassy hill and the hike as a stroll in the park. To us, the mountain

memories.

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Crunch, crunch, crunch: Our boots tempted the layers of ice on the glacier

own memory – a memory that could have easily been misunderstood as a

as we trekked through the cold. Instead of rolling hills of plush grass or endless

marvelous dream. Eventually, after people dug the crust out of their eyes and

flats of mud, I witnessed rolling hills of glistening ice atop Sheridan glacier. I

tamed their wild hair, we approached the flight attendants and opened our

beheld an ice kingdom through the lens of a camera, and the kingdom revealed

passports.

pieces of enchanting beauty with each step, over every hill, and around each

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corner. In Alaska, beauty and adventure were bound together in an eternal love

I offered the flight attendant, whose deep purple lipstick and smoky eye shadow

story. Guided by our experienced instructor, I thwarted gravity and climbed a

disguised her fatigue and jetlag, my boarding pass. “I hope you enjoyed your

vertical ice wall. I scaled the wall step by step; my arms and legs guided by

stay,” she cordially remarked with an expected flight attendant smile plastered

adventure, my eyes guided by beauty. Cody and Gage, protecting me on each

across her face. I returned a smile; a real smile with gum squeezed between my

slippery step, provided instructions, but their voices dissipated in my foggy

teeth and dimples etched into my cheek. “Thank you. I really did.” She returned

breath. I only heard the methodical thump of the ice axe as adventure and beauty

my scanned boarding pass.

kissed. Thump. “Forget.” Thump. “Me.” Thump. “Not.”

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obnoxious snores of the men to my left and right muffled her voice. Alaska’s voice

On our final day in Cordova, Alaska, we experienced the town from a

I, being one of the only travelers fully awake, strolled to the head of the line.

Sitting on the plane, a voice crept into my ear. I listened intently; the

different perspective. The owner of our lodge guided us to his small plane in the

spoke to me as the plane roared down the runway. The voice of adventure. The

early evening. “I’ll take everyone up in shifts. Are the first four ready?” A

voice of people I will never forget. The voice of memories I will cherish forever.

member of the first four, I clutched Steve’s outstretched hand and mounted the

The voice of magic. Alaska’s voice tickled my ear at 2:45 a.m. in a plane

steps inside the small plane. I squeezed into the very back seat and strapped my

surrounded by the black abyss of sky. “Caroline, forget me not.” I closed my eyes

seatbelt tightly around my waist. Minutes passed in the tiny capsule of metal

and watched the pale blue petal gently float to the ground, and I caressed the soft,

before the wheels began to roll. Headphones on. Seatbelts strapped. The wheels

pollen-dusted petal with my fingertip.

of the plane rattled along the pavement as the air vehicle gained speed. Within

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I opened my eyes. “I will never forget.”

seconds, the clumps of air lifted the wings; the plane soared. From above, the plane glided over our days of adventure. I peered through the tiny square

Caroline Donovan ’19

windows at the mud lands, spotted with moose. The wings of the plane dipped,

Scholastic Silver Key Personal Essay

and we sailed over a kaleidoscope of glimmering glaciers. “Looks different from up here, huh?” Steve’s voice rattled through the bulky, square headphones.

“Yeah,” I murmured to myself in complete awe. We began our descent; the glaciers, moose, murky rivers, and reflective lakes waved goodbye. “Forget me not,” the beauties pleaded. A broad smile spread across my face as I indulged in the magic of an eagle’s eye view. !

The memory reel faded and jolted on the tracks; my wandering mind

returned to the airport. “Good evening from Alaska airlines. The local time is 2:00 a.m. We will begin boarding in ten minutes.” I paused my music and slipped my phone into my pocket. Then, I progressed to each of my dozing classmates. I awakened my fellow adventurers from their dreams as I tried to recover from my

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Hall of Mammals, Hall of Bones Jigsaw puzzle, wrecked cadaver, I am more a suggestion than a true form.

My shape evokes A wind-racer; a wild figment Of Western dramas, or European cavalry.

But there are gaps, and little assistances— Steel poles cradle my neck and back, Keeping me upright, sustaining the illusion.

I have discovered that I am an ungulate, a Hoofed mammal.

I have watched tired parents Sound out the word, slowly and Deliberately, Letting it linger On languid, pulsing tongues.

I am characterized by the presence Of hooves, or “horn-like sheathes”.

I am no longer a living horse, or, rather, I am no longer a living Equus Caballus— That is my title now.

I have heard children read it from A plaque nestled beside my right-front hoof.

Equus Caballus—so clinical, so foreign in its construction.

I wonder, if the glass was gone, if The child might have slipped his hand between The slats of my ribcage And let his fingers catch at space.

It is strange, not feeling full. I remember Organs, muscles, ligaments, tendons; The sensation of completeness, a body’s Humming thrum and Reality of motion.

Now, I am hollow, With nothing to prevent barren air From stagnating, from pooling In my empty spaces.

My friend, who was once an elephant, says That if we were polished We would be “ivory”, Nacreous in the half-illumination of the exhibition lights, and Pale like his tusks. So long and curved they are, Like fern leaves.

Emma Stovicek ’17 Scholastic Gold Key Poem

I wonder if I scare them. The children.

I watched a boy, his face Almost miraculous with inner warmth and moisture, Press his hand up against the glass That separated us.

He did not seem afraid, but Then again, he did not let his eyes rest too long On my own face: Hanging jaw thrust into the remainder Of a skull; Slit-like joinings and Hairline cracks, a webbing just below my eye socket.

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Don’t Go I have much appreciation for this moment, for what would I do, what would I do, if I did not have my father? When I was a young, energetic child, my dad deployed to Iraq. He taught me the difference between want and need. I gazed him in the eyes.

Alone. The unique sound of the faucet drip from across the room.

I did not entirely grasp what was happening – he didn’t really know how to tell me. A staunch stare at a thin crack in the slightly scratched oak wood floors. Only until a teardrop fills the crack.

Pondering Sanjana Malik ’17

Tori Mock ’17

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Sweta Do not let this world turn you bitter, cold.

Happiness In a doll made from straws In narrow, winding village paths In a golden flower woven into your hair In the twirling of a dance, clapping of hands Giving more than you have to give.

Simple things, A one-room house Milk tea Your brother’s fractured English Calling your mother beautiful in a swath of vibrant pink

In waking up before the sun does In saving up for weeks To buy silver earrings at the market for a girl you haven’t met yet.

In shy dreams of coming to America In riding a bike nine kilometers to school each day That same bike that once betrayed you Giving you that scar on your right cheek.

You take my hand And tell me how lucky you are Your eyes are bright They do not let the cold penetrate Always open, never bitter.

Olivia O’Dwyer ’17

Barefoot, in front of the brown dirt wall.

Laughter In grasping someone’s hand Smiling into the heat Serving hundreds of tin plates of rice In the cold water fountains A green sash A silver charm on a red thread Joyful like the little ones, Always eager.

In painting, mangoes, a dusty badminton court Kissing a new friend’s hand Hands always open, never bitter.

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Vulnerable I strip my body of everything, Layers upon layers of insecurities and doubts, Raw. I stand before him and unleash a tidal wave of emotion and love, Tears violently rush down my face as he stands before me, Silence.

My weak legs quake with fear, He slowly raises his voice, and the painful words tumble out of his mouth One, By, One, Rejection.

The knife punctures my naked heart, He cannot bear to look into my broken eyes, In a frozen state of humility, I cast my eyes towards the pile of insecurity and doubt, He disappears from the room,

Composition Leah DaCosta ’17

Alone.

I stand alone, exposed, helpless, Pathetically, I slip the layer of clothing, of protection, above my head, I smear my own tears, turn off the light, and leave the room, Darkness.

Caroline Donovan ’19

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Hide and Seek !

The plush grass tickled the young girl’s toes. Her tiny toenails, dotted with the remnants of bubblegum pink polish, shined in the 7:00 pm, golden hour, sunlight. “Come find me,” her clarion voice shrilled. She hugged the trunk of the giant elm – her favorite hiding place. Her short wingspan struggled to embrace the wide tree, but she held on tight, tighter. She refused to let go. !

She tried to suppress her bubbly giggles, giving a glimpse to her fresh innocence. Inside, her father watched his daughter, his precious creation, peek out behind her fantasized castle. He reminded himself to wash the white dress she currently wore. The cream fabric that used to dazzle and glisten with its pure whiteness shouldered the stains of a child’s afternoon. He peered at his watch.

When should he beckon her to come inside and wash up? A huge smile, much too big for his daughter’s young face, strummed his heart strings. He couldn’t help but watch her and indulge in her happiness. Five more minutes. !

Outside, she danced around the elm. Her eyes remained glued to the dissipating blue of the evening sky. “Where are you?” she called. “Come find me,” she coaxed. She lost her balance and tripped over the bulky root of her favorite tree. Dizzy from dancing, the child’s world spun. The elm towered over her. Cracked, shards of sunlight pierced through the foliage of the green, verdant leaves. Her heavy breathing echoed in her own ears. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Exhale. Her breath fell into rhythm with the breeze. !

The microwave oven beeped obnoxiously, disturbing the moment. Her father retrieved the leftovers from the microwave. He dreaded the time, the pain that would commence in the next few minutes. He threw the lukewarm pasta into a bowl with a frustrated force, and before his courage depleted like the air inside of a torn balloon, he marched into the backyard. !

His constant reminder of the past – his past and hers – hid behind the elm.

She lay outstretched in the shape of a star in the freshly cut grass. “Darling,” he whispered to her. The clench of her fists into tight balls indicated his presence.

“No,” her voice began to break and shatter. “Honey,” he lunged for her and wrapped his daughter into his arms. She screamed and fought. Her thin arms tore down his weak frame. And her tears, streaming down her rosy cheeks in thick ribbons, fell upon his shirt.

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He could not bear to look into her bloodshot eyes any longer; he peered up at the elm, into the sky. “It’s time for dinner and a shower, sweetheart.” Pure anger in her eyes. He never knew a child could feel such an intense pain, but he saw the fear and questioning in his daughter’s pale eyes. Her eyes used to be a bright blue, filled with love and happiness, he reminded himself. “Dad,” her bitter voice drew his mind back to the day and to the pain. He stood, clutching his broken daughter in his weak arms. “Stop!” She screamed a piercing scream that resembled the screeching of brakes on an icy road. He obeyed her command, and he waited under the shadows of the elm. !

“We can’t go inside yet,” she demanded. “Why?” His voice cracked with the oncoming rush of tears and emotion. “She hasn’t found me yet.” Her father used the sleeve of her cotton dress to wipe his own tears, “Who?” The child tugged on the lobe of his ear and pressed her wet lips to his ear, “Mom.” !

After a moment, her father pulled away and lifted his daughter onto the strong branch of the old elm. He spoke, “Do you miss her?” His voice barely a whisper. In three words, his daughter, his princess sitting atop the protected castle in her princess gown, broke his heart. “All the time.” !

Together, they cried. They cried under the shadows of the gallant castle.

For the rest of her life, the princess spent each day looking for the queen, and the king mourned the disappearance of his daughter’s bright blue eyes.

Caroline Donovan ’19

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Crickets !

“Chirp, chirp, chirp.”

Again.

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Two lovers singing to each other

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“Chirp, chirp, chirp.”

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across the divide.

Crunching footsteps approach, Shadowy figures loom, The duet stops.

Insect eyes watch human specters.

Seconds pass, the silence deepens, The crunch of asphalt retreats.

Stillness reigns.

The cricket song resumes, !

Short, !!

sweet, Always somewhere in the distance,

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But never close at hand.

Keelin Reilly ’17

Covered Reflection Ryan Padien ’18

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Water Lilies I must accept A personal winter: December come too early.

It starts in my left eye (The geriatric one, eternally Myopic); a buzzing pain, Sharp even when closed.

Your body careens forward, and The water swallows you up.

Lilies twist on their hidden stalks, laughing.

I huddle near the roiled plane, Watching something lithe Throw itself into the lily-root tangle.

I hold my breath, as you do.

Frost grows on the convex edge

Now, as snow-flowers crowd my eyes,

Between cornea and conjunctiva, a rime

I see you rising in my memory, your

Spiraling across my world in floral damasks

Bare limbs coated over with

Devoid of color, but precise in form,

Reflected light.

Like so many lilies, tumbling out of

And, peeking out from your clenched fist,

Unknowable waters.

A water lily

I remember You Perching at the edge, your Toes teasing the black depths.

Bone-white under the ageless moon.

Emma Stovicek ’17 Scholastic Gold Key Poem

Ripples glide out Mathematically, almost holy, Touching, one by one, the Floating lilies, their petals white and ethereal.

Your skinny arm, twilight-pitted with Blues and purples, Hangs free.

You raise it Slowly, with the solemnity That only a child can possess.

You reach out

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Saltine Crackers !

(After Sandra Cisneros) My name in English means serves God. In Italian, it means sacrifice and value. It’s a brand of saltine crackers. It’s like the bags under your eyes. A memory that haunts your dreams.

It was my grandmother’s name, but now it’s mine. She reminisces on the past – thinking of better times when her seven children ran about the house, breaking everything in sight, her husband still alive, laying in bed next to her, and her mother, calling her everyday, just to check up on how her day has been.

My grandmother. She was a persistent realtor, a forgiving mother, a compassionate daughter, a faithful servant, but the best grandmother. A queen of all the gypsies, until my grandfather swooped her off her feet and married her at the age of eighteen.

And the story goes she never followed her dreams. She never traveled Europe, never sang in front of an audience, she never had the chance to dream more than that. Her dreams died when her husband did. And she was stuck raising seven children all on her own. I wonder if she is happy with her life. Gilda.

At school everyone pronounces my name wrong so I tell them to just call me Tori. I made my own name because people couldn’t pronounce my real one. It’s a nickname for my middle name. I like Tori. Easy to say, hard to mess up, rolls off the tongue. I guess you could say less unique, but it will do.

Tori Mock ’17

Untitled Jacob Gehrt ’20

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After the Supoxi Wars A message from the Elvenan to the rebelling Sha’tik, a client race of the Elvenan Meritocracy ! ! !

Long ago, we were an oddity among the stars. A race of beings made of meat?

In the plant dominated galaxy, there was no more horrifying idea. To the Supoxi Confederacy, the ruling council of the galaxy at the time, we were monsters willing to devour the bodies of the sentient, though we never even attempted to consume any individual of a Supoxi member race. We resigned ourselves to being the pariahs of the galaxy, withdrawing to the token worlds the Confederacy had given to us.

And then, we found the humans. Here, finally, was another sapient animal, one that even superficially resembled us. No longer were we alone in the cold. They were primitive, yes. They had barely begun to explore their own solar system when we stumbled upon them, and the ships that were exploring did not even carry fuel with them, but we did not care. Our scout ships broadcast a greeting to their homeworld, causing, we later learned, mass panic and existential crisis. We watched, terrified, as armies were raised and our new friends prepared to fight off the alien "invaders." !

And then, sudden peace. Somehow, the human spiritual leaders managed to put aside their doctrinal differences and quiet the more militant human leaders. What followed was a golden age for both our societies, as we rejoiced at the first cultural exchange we had experienced in centuries, and they pored over our technologies, adapting and improving them as they went. Twenty-five galactic standard years passed in this fashion, but the peace didn't last. The alenack, the premier species of the Confederacy, had grown wary of our new alliance. They struck three of our colonies without warning, first with the sunlight deprivation weapons that they had used to dominate millennia ago, and then with magnetic accelerator cannon bombardment. We were then sent an ultimatum - either disband the alliance, glass the human worlds, and retreat to our surviving colonies, else the entire might of the Confederacy would descend upon our little corner of space. !

The humans didn’t take kindly to those threats. Initially, we believed nothing had changed. But gradually, we noticed things. New shipyards were built, and the assembly lines shifted from civilian luxury liners to cruisers heavier than we had ever conceived of, carriers with the carrying capacity of a hundred Alenack super-carriers.

When we confronted our friends about this surge in militarism, their answer amounted to, “You are our family among the stars. Family doesn’t abandon each

other that quickly.” We didn’t quite know how to respond to such sentiment, beyond preparing our own ships. !

The campaign was short, compared to what we had projected, mostly due to the Confederacy’s failure to counteract the advantage the human starfighter swarms gave us over the lumbering super-cruisers the Confederacy favored. By the end of the seven year war, we had firm control of a third of Supoxi territory, and nominal control of the rest. The pacification of the rest was quick from there. !

Why have I taken the time to remind you of this ancient history? You have become an annoyance. We would have welcomed you to the negotiation table, if you had simply come to us. But now that Ferador is burning, we say only this; The dragon of humanity has lain sleeping for the five hundred years since the extermination of the Supoxi. Pray we crush your rebellion before you wake them.

Excerpt from Memoirs of a Driver: The Supox Wars !

You ask the brass what won us the war, they’ll tell you it was the Olympic-class heavy cruiser, that marvel of human ingenuity. Thirty years among the stars, and we already had better fighting ships than half the galaxy. Feh. So our genetic memories dredged up enough vague ideas from before the Alenack rebelled and devolved us to let us win a space measuring contest. What really won the war, as a new invention of this incarnation of humanity, was the Enterprise supercarrier. A single Enterprise carried enough fighters and pilots to take on entire fleets of Supoxi cruisers by itself, and they always travelled with a wolfpack or two of Olympics covering them. !

If the Enterprises won us the war, the Peregrine starfighter was the weapon it used. Ten meters of titanium-A polyalloy, housing two pairs of plasma bolters and a propulsion system fast enough to satisfy the most hardcore speed demons. Three years into the war, all of us, the pilots, had tweaked our fighters bit by bit, coaxing more speed or higher bolter power out of those beautiful planes. !

I was posted on the Enterprise herself for the duration of the war. I was at Dercator, where we first clashed with the Supoxi fleets, at Trupain where the Peregrine swarms crushed the defending Girtan before the supporting Olympics had firing solutions, and at Alenack Prime, where we both crushed the Supoxi Confederacy’s will to fight and discovered the details of our devolution and split into humanity and elvenan; Enterprises were there at all the huge events in the course of the war. But of course, the ones that get the credit are the damn Olympic crews. !

Whatever. We got to fly into battle, instead of just riding. They can’t take that from us.

Charlie Liston ’17 Scholastic Honorable Mention Science Fiction Story

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Navy Beans !

(After Sandra Cisneros) My name in Spanish means Juan, makes me sound suave and debonair, some dude on a pristine beach in Greece making all the moves on the ladies. But it’s also the word for toilet - plain, functional, porcelain and squat. Like navy beans. Like a fat clay pot.

It was my grandfather’s name, and my Dad’s name; now my youngest son has it too, passed down like a badge. My grandfather was a cook in the Navy in World War II. He traveled the world, Guam, the Mediterranean, exotic places, while his 6year-old son and new wife from northeast Philly sat at home. He was from Dawson, Georgia, met a beautiful northerner in a bar in Philly during the Depression, an Irish Catholic girl, 19 years old, who loved his navy whites. He was 31. My grandfather loved Navy bean soup - that’s what my Dad told me. Those white, bland beans make lousy soup.

Grandpop. He wasn’t much of a cook I remember, but he had these model trains in his narrow rowhouse in the northeast. We would visit and I would retreat to the basement, to his little model village and HO train engines going round and round the oval track. Upstairs, in the dining room sat the air machine he would hook himself up to to relieve the emphysema. He smokes as well as cooked on that naval destroyer. That was the story anyway. Now, in some way, it’s my story too.

It’s my name. John.

Crabfeast Bria Nixon ’18

I like my name, the one simple syllable sounds squat on the tongue, like mashed potatoes, sometimes with gravy, sometimes not.

John Jordan ’80

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Grief Grieving Over You

I gaze into your eyes,

No one knows my pain

they’re still as blue as ever.

I stand searching for relief

But I see they’ve lost their twinkle,

Your loss breaks my heart

and now project your pain.

Closed off

Musing over that balloon,

Shut into my room

I realize I’m holding you back.

The pain builds up inside me

I see your eyes looking up

I collapse and let it out

to the heavens above.

But every time they are restrained,

Letting Go

by my hand clasped on yours.

Clinging to your bedside, I dare not move a muscle.

I still want you here with me,

Outside the nurses whisper,

but I know you want to go.

about some terms I don’t understand.

Slowly, now, I kiss your cheek,

Grasping your hand in mine,

and say my last goodbye.

I pull you close to me.

I give your hand one last squeeze, and then

Outside I see a balloon, clung to by a toddler.

I let go

It’s big and blue and floating up, reaching for the sky above.

Tully Liu ’19 Scholastic Honorable Mention Poem

But his hand tugs at the string, forcing it to stay with him.

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Contemplation #309 His cigarette smoke curls with a sort of slow desperation its tendrils climbing towards the gray sky.

The air is so cold that the hot ash he flicks from his cigarette seems like it will freeze as it falls and shatter into tiny, frozen pieces when it hits the ground.

He is a man of bar brawls and Monday night football on a fuzzy T.V. A man of grit and grime, with tough hands from years of work and a dirty, old wife beater stretched around his beer gut.

He stands on the balcony of a two-story condominium, his pose give off nothing but an air of placid leisure, except for his dead mans grip around the balcony railing, the slight dampness to his cheeks, and the tremble in his hands when he brings the cigarette to his lips.

He stares directly at the shining fluorescent lights of the Dollar Tree across the street, but, it is impossible to follow his gaze for it looks far beyond that of cheap candy and plastic toys.

And you wonder what could possibly cause this brick wall of a man to crack.

But every man is a mirror if you allow him to be.

And so he becomes a reflection of me and for a few moments I share his tear dampened gaze and watch the hazy memories of our pasts, both of us reaching towards a mirage of happier times, tears freezing as they fall, before hitting the ground and bursting into thousands of frozen bits.

But, he turns away and throws his cigarette to the ground and the mirror cracks and falls apart, so I am no longer gazing at my reflection but again at the brick wall man turning to go back inside.

Silhouette Shadow Makala Wang ’17

Elise Brady ’20

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Seventeen Magazine Presents: A Guide to Modern Love, by Gina Grossman (A Satire) !

Congratulations! If you’re reading this, your parents probably just gave you permission to start dating, an accomplishment that cannot go unrecognized. You have reached the point in your life in which you are mature enough to exchange your worn-out, overused name for the esteemed title of “_______’s girlfriend” and learn to place someone else’s happiness above your own. What an honor! !

You may think that, since you’ve recently celebrated your fifteenth birthday, you are all knowing and wiser than your parents and teachers, but let me reassure you: you know absolutely nothing about this. You have crossed the esteemed threshold between girl and woman, so you must learn how to thrive in a mature, adult relationship, not the pathetic hand-holding you settled for in junior high.

You are a newbie to the complex, mystical realm of hormones and hookups; you should feel completely lost and befuddled right now. Without proper guidance and advice, you’ll be out of your first relationship faster than you can say “Netflix and chill.” !

First, you must develop a full understanding of the “girlfriend” job description to accurately fulfill it in your relationship. You need to recognize that the word “girlfriend” is not a title, but a cleverly juxtaposed acronym that encapsulates the many roles and requirements that the position entails: !

Glamorous arm candy !

Image of perfection

!

Recurring character on his Instagram

!

Loyal devotee

!

Fixed prom date

!

Regular hook-up partner!

!

Instant booty call

!

Entertainer and babysitter

!

Nurse and caretaker

!

Doting admirer !

After reading the various definitions of the girlfriend position, you’re probably feeling overwhelmed and a bit intimidated. There is no way you can satisfy each of these jobs and balance schoolwork and extracurricular activities, you tell yourself. And you’re right, for now. Without the proper guidance, you’ll be completely stressed and unable to excel in any aspect of your life. An additional acronym further analyzes and classifies the multitude of requirements, simplifying and categorizing the necessary values a girlfriend should have so that even the dumbest blonde can understand the job. !

Once you familiarize yourself with the myriad of roles you will be playing over the course of your relationship, you must fulfill these sacred duties by

mastering the arts of HOME. When a wise girlfriend discusses the importance of making her beau a happy HOME, she refers to the combination of Hotness, Obedience, Mediocrity, and Encouragement that women provide to bolster their partner’s self-confidence and wellbeing. Studies completed at University of Pennsylvania and University of the Sciences prove women possessing these four integral romantic virtues have the most success when it comes to sustaining relationships. After all, HOME is where the heart is. !

Hotness acts as the first- and arguably most important- virtue of HOME that requires girlfriends to look good at all times. When boys evaluate women as possible companions, they employ a multifaceted, intricate grading system that far exceeds the feeble comprehension capabilities of the female mind. The technical, scientific term for the process is known as “rating them” on a scale of 1 to 10 based on the women’s looks and, to quote women’s rights activist Donald Trump, f***ability. If a woman desires recognition from such eloquent and admirable figureheads of society like Trump, she must perfect her image by stepping out with nothing but top-notch, flawless makeup, hair, and clothing. This crucial task continues long past the flirting phase; the wives in the healthiest marriages never reveal their physical flaws to their husbands. For example, successful husband Kris Humphries shared that he did not see Kim Kardashian’s bare face once during their entire marriage! The power couple epitomizes the standards of beauty perfection that women must follow in order to sustain her relationship. !

Hotness also necessitates a strict diet defined using The Three S’s: salad, smoothies, and starvation. Because refusing a meal appears impolite and disrespectful, the perfect girlfriend eats salads to give her boyfriend the impression that she eats on a regular basis and still maintains such a fabulous physique. She does not actually drink the smoothies she totes around; they simply symbolize the hours she spends each day exercising profusely to stay in shape.

Starvation provides the foundation for her dainty waistline and idealistic thigh gap, but she keeps her eating habits (or lack thereof) private so as not to alarm anyone. When she craves the simple comfort of a grilled cheese sandwich, she repels her impulsive thoughts of carbs and fats and focuses on perfecting her image. !

Next, Obedience, the second virtue of HOME, stipulates that the ideal girlfriend should comply with all of her boyfriend’s sexual demands, no matter how uncomfortable they make her. As a member of the levelheaded, powerful sex, her boyfriend determines how far they will go in their relationship, and she regards his insightful decision with respect and subservience. Because your boyfriend is a man, you can trust that he will make the most logical and appropriate choices regarding your intimacy. After all, logic and reason dominate the minds of teenage boys. The girlfriend should meet his demands without a single complaint because she expressed a keen interest in this boy before the relationship began, and by committing into a relationship with him, agreed to satisfy all of his wants and needs. !

Besides, relationship specialists and sexologists have completed extensive research to prove that refusing sexual advances “really kills the mood.” In a recent study conducted at University of the Sciences, nine out of ten men in a trial stated

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that they lost motivation and arousal when their partners protested their sexual demands. From this data, the specialists deduced that men lose their sexual desire because they spend too much time and effort pleading with their partners, a travesty that no man should have to endure. The following graph displays the results from the study:

! !

In addition to Hotness and Obedience, Mediocrity plays a significant part in HOME because the perfect companion provides constant, unconditional support and promotion for her boyfriend by ensuring that her successes to do not outshine his. In order to proliferate her boyfriend’s self-worth and ego, the model maintains a 78 average in most classes. Mediocrity requires great balance because she must keep her grades just low enough to support her boyfriend but just high enough to pass as “average.” In addition, the idyllic partner stays far away from leadership opportunities and positions in school. If she becomes team captain or class officer, her schedule will quickly grow with new conflicts that encroach on her time with her boyfriend. When her boyfriend feels left out and lonely, he has no choice but to seek comfort elsewhere and cheat on his girlfriend. In addition, if she assumes powerful positions in student government or clubs, she belittles the meager successes of her boyfriend while also promoting a sense of equality in relationships that disrupts the pristine patriarchy that men have worked so hard to instill in society. !

Last and certainly not least, Encouragement implores the exemplary sweetheart to act as an unwavering support system for your fragile boyfriend.

Contrary to popular belief, insecurities dominate and haunt men every day, so the girlfriend must constantly remind him of his importance and significance. To

begin, she severs all ties with other men so he does not feel jealous or intimidated.

Additionally, she remains unbothered as he fosters new relationships with gorgeous girls and raves about other women in front of her. This is typical- boys will be boys. Harmless locker room banter would not perturb a truly confident, charismatic woman! !

To fully encompass the complicated Encouragement virtue, the model companion employs optimism by choosing to view her boyfriend’s actions positively. For example, when her boyfriend chooses not to celebrate their oneyear anniversary, she does not express her disappointment and resentment, allowing her irrational, feminine rage and moodiness pervade her thoughts.

Instead, she recognizes the difficulty of purchasing a grocery store bouquet, which requires her boyfriend to spend the hard-earned money his parents gave him. A true sweetheart does not let her selfish demands and expectations overshadow his generosity and kindness. !

Although the HOME process sounds complicated and demanding to a neophyte in the amorous cosmos of romance, women who enlist this method benefit rave about the successful results. After all, the patented HOME technique guarantees an eventual connection between you and a boy some time in the span of your high school experience! Best of luck, ladies, you are the next generation of followers in society!

Gina Grossman is a 60-year-old woman who resides in Charleston, South Carolina with her three pussycats, Mr. Fluffykins, Mr. Snugglypuff, and Donald Trump. When she is helping out in the kitchen, Grossman enjoys being seen and not heard. She is currently single and registered on Match.com, EHarmony, Christian Mingle, Farmersonly, and Tinder.

Katherine Alberta ’19 Scholastic Gold Key Humor Essay

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Bolner Imagines Heaven !

(After Paul Zimmer) I scramble across broken debris with Dawkins, King Leonidas offers us a tour of the Greek Colosseum.

Ghandi and Keller meditate atop a Corinthian pilaster.

Einstein and Hawking ponder over the Higgs boson.

Wahlberg assists Daryl over a Doric column.

Stevie croons Lennon’s “Imagine,” everyone assembles.

Freeman opens up the French toast and prime rib buffet, while Tom Hanks hands out cold ones.

At dusk, Houdini escapes out of a straitjacket, Arnold and Hulse clean and jerk blocks of concrete over their heads.

Later, fireworks fly off from Knoxville’s teeth.

Pinkman and Armstrong boast about their out of world escapades.

The guests find a seat as a girl walks to the center.

VanderWaal sings “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

Lincoln stands confidently on top a Tudor arch.

MLK preaches about all men being equal.

Rosa Parks intervenes to mention women’s rights.

Applause erupts, men and women stand together.

I sit with O’Leary and Jobs, gazing up at the stars.

They talk investments and the fluctuating market, I close my eyes enjoying the cool midnight breeze.

Coach Ambrogi walks up to me, palming a football.

He taps me on the shoulder and drops the ball on my lap.

We have a catch, the football spiraling though the night air.

I am stuck in the moment. The amphitheater becomes a blur, conservations hush. I look up to the moon with everlasting happiness.

Coach’s smile is the best part of the day.

Joe Bolner ’17

We’ll Miss You, Coach Ambrogi Alex Conrad ’18

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Leaving Archmere: A Study in the Senses This is what leaving looks like It’s green and it’s white and it’s beautiful.

It’s your classmates’ handwriting on the back of your shirt !

Each signature as different and special as each of them It’s the smile on the faces of admissions directors !

As they tell the families of middle schoolers: !

“She’s about to graduate! She’ll tell you about the Archmere experience!”

It’s the puzzled stares of that family as you sit there in silence Realizing you don’t have the words to do so It looks like waving farewell. !

This is what leaving sounds like It’s the collective sigh of relief as you all hand in your last research paper It’s the cheers of your entire grade as your valedictorian Gets called to the stage.

It’s the words of your teachers wishing you well Reminding you that you’ll always have A place to come back to.

It’s the last time Mr. Johnson yells good morning !

With a coffee cup grasped in his left hand It sounds like saying “I’ll miss you”.

This is what leaving smells like It’s the scent of the flowers your prom date hands you.

It’s the aroma of hamburgers that someone decided to cook In the back of his truck during the last morning tailgate It’s the clean and pleasant perfume of the well-kept patio !

That you walk into to see your Kairos family all together again !

To recreate your sense of peace once more It’s the stench of the sweat of the tennis and rugby and lacrosse teams !

As they become state champs for yet another year It smells like a forget-me-not.

This is what your last week tastes like It’s the last doughnut you steal from the math office.

It’s the last basket of chicken tenders you order !

And eat with the people you’ve sat with for years.

It’s the tears you have to swallow when you hear !!

“Let’s give it up for the seniors!” !

And the whole theater claps It’s the candy you get from college counseling !

Where you walk for reminders that there’s life after this It tastes like a kiss goodbye.

This is what leaving feels like It’s the lump in your throat as you leave your last class It’s Mr. Jordan punching you on the shoulder !

Friday morning as you walk into St. Norbert’s.

It’s wrapping yourself in the hugs of the people you love most !

Knowing you’ll see them all summer !

But needing to be close to them right now anyway.

It’s an overwhelming sense of familiarity !

“Nostalgia” doesn’t quite cover the sense of comfort.

It feels like leaving home.

Sophie Singh ’17

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Tapestry 2017 Editorial Staff Zoe Akoto ’17, Editor Natasha Gengler ’18 Ryan Nowaczyk ’18 Shreyas Parab ’18 Other Staff Members Elise Brady ’20 Emily Lugg ’19 Keelin Reilly ’17 Faculty Advisor Mr. Steve Klinge Thank you to...

Ms. Jody Hoffman and the Art Department Mr. John Jordan and the Creative Writing Class Mr. Robert Nowaczyk ...and all who submitted work to Tapestry!

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