2023-2024 Cambridge Road Literary Magazine by BishopIretonHS

The Spice of Life

CambridgeRoadLiteraryMagazine 2023-2024

Cambridge Road Literary Magazine

by Nick Temple Cover Art: “Rose-stained Shore”

CambridgeRoad LiteraryMagazine

May you continue to persevere, finding – or being –the light in the darkness.

A Letter from the Editors

Dear Readers,

Our beloved literary publication has a history of responding to current events. Whether it be as distinctive as the global pandemic or as broad as climate change, Cambridge Road showcases not only our own opinions, but also our emotions and actions regarding the history that we experience.

CambridgeRoad LiteraryMagazine

This year’s edition “The Spice of Life” seeks to capture the multifaction of our understandings of the world, especially in light of the distress which many undergo. We dedicate this edition to not only those in the world who struggle from the tribulations of violence and hunger, but also those in our own community who have suffered from grief and loss.

We hope that this year’s edition can offer sweet comfort, and that we may add some “spice” to cut the bitterness with which life may salt our recipes.

A big thank you to everyone in our Bishop Ireton community who made this year’s edition possible we appreciate your endless support.

Annaliese Ludvigson and Hallie Crawford, Editors-in-Chief 2023-2024

The Spice of Life

Annabella McDowell

Life where colors swirl and blend

As twists and turns of fate begin to reveal which we cannot apprehend As things begin to intertwine, we question what was left behind the spice of life so rich and rare

People yearn for a taste of what is not yet there

Sweet Chili Sizzle

Karissa Dinh

Invisible String

Lorelei Burns

To those who feel the damages brought, Through life and tragedy, Through challenges fraught, I do not pity you. For most of the time, Pity is one of nature’s crimes.

Life is never fair and steady, For the cards dealt in life are full of pity, Full of Sadness, fear, and sin, Full of the devil found within, It is true that there is more danger found, In the invisible harm of the world around, In the sadness felt in the morning, Of a day full of fear and mourning, So can’t we live in a perfect world? Where love and sadness are never twirled? Where life is just a great big story, And the world is full of heavenly glory? Why do we have to suffer pain, So rich and full in its dying reign, And keep hanging on to the hope, That one day there will be a golden rope, To pull us from what once was good, But now is so greatly misunderstood?

Invisible String (cont.)

Lorelei Burns

For sorry never heals, The true inner damage that we feel, The binds that tie our hands together, And prevent us from living our lives altogether, The invisible strings moved by the fingers, of the devils who fight us and who linger, Who try to slip past our shields, And leave our scars left unhealed.

So that is why I cannot pity, Those who live lives hard and gritty, For I’d rather spend my time, Fighting with you by your side, To prove that life was once again wrong, And that we will leave here forever strong, And that life will never take advantage, Of our warmth and our kindness, And our humanly blindness,

That prevents us from saying once more; Our lives aren’t yours anymore.

Goblin in El Morro

Miguel de Angel

The Unrequited Lover

Reagan Lowrance

The delightful rollercoaster of unrequited affection, where heartache flows as freely as tears during a bad romantic comedy. Liking a guy who does not like me back is parallel to being stuck in a never-ending game of emotional Whack-A-Mole. But instead of a rubber mallet, I am armed with a bouquet of rubbish emotions.

It is a tantalizing dance of desire and disappointment, where every interaction turns into a meticulous analysis worthy of a Nobel Prize in Overthinking. From decoding text messages like ancient hieroglyphics to scrutinizing every subtle gesture for any kind of hidden meaning. It is a masterclass in mental gymnastics.

Meanwhile, the object of my affection stays blissfully unaware, frolicking through his life with all the obliviousness of a puppy in a field of daisies. He is the star of my one-man show, while I remain stuck in the role of a silent, love-struck spectator; forever stranded on the sidelines with a bucket of popcorn and a heart full of longing.

But fear not, for there is always a silver lining in this twisted game of romantic roulette. After all, what is the meaning of life without a healthy dose of unrequited love to keep things interesting?

Harvest Moon

Ella Schmutz

A Poem for Grace

Natalie Drey

A piece of glass ends up in the sea, Whether by accident or not, it was meant to be, I - the piece - am out on my own now, nevertheless.

A baby girl given a name of beauty. In front of her - welcomed unknowns and uncharted discoveries, Nevertheless, it was her grand destiny.

Today, calm are the seas, Not a single hint of activity, The sun shines upon me, As it does normally, Still, I float on, anchorlessly.

A child plays amongst the reeds, Having all the fun that can be. As the little girl and her sisters run in glee, Their mother thinks “Oh, how I wished for these moments to be.”

Still, the girls play, carelessly.

Today the water is rough, a storm I see, Tossed and turned about reminds me, That I must continue to brave the waves, steadfastly.

A Poem for Grace (cont.)

Natalie Drey

The child, now a lady, Reflects on life as she looks out over the sea. For a storm she sees, Has always given rise to difficulty. From the very first sun rise, To the final setting of the moon’s radiance. The waves, strong and lively, And the sky with its clouds in a whirling breeze.

But when the calm of the storm has come to be, On that quiet eve, She sees the resilience of the beach, That fights on, tirelessly.

I have grown old and weary, So worn and clouded no one can see through me,

My edges round as they can be, I’ve gone through numerous seas, And I’ve seen humanity move on while I float, endlessly.

While some would have given up easily, She did not, and continued to face the sea. Watching as it calmed from being so choppy. Each storm brought something weathered and beat, That she placed on a shelf, carefully.

A Poem for Grace (cont.)

Natalie Drey

I’ve landed here before, The soft waves push me up upon the shore. I’ve seen so many walking along, looking for me, Some even trying to reach me, Yet the waves pull me back into the sea. So here, I sit, blamelessly.

She walks along the sea, The water sent her back to her childhood, you see.

She kept her head down, watching for a new piece,

One never knew what each wave would convey, A Pepsi bottle by the bay, A piece of pottery found between the stones of the jetty.

Sometimes she found plenty, Other days she found an amount described as tiny.

Still there was always something she could find, doubtlessly.

Yet today the search goes differently, Stuck in wet sand you’ll find me, I feel someone’s eyes land on my shine unexpectedly. I feel her fingers grab me, Rubbing them on my weathered boundaries, Her eyes staring through my clouded physique.

A Poem for Grace (cont.)

Natalie Drey

The joy she found in me, Nothing can ever replace that memory.

She picked up the piece, Where, she thought, have you gone on your journey?

The piece showed signs of misery, But despite the wave’s hard hand, it went on with vitality. Yet it had made it all the way from across the sea,

Torn and bruised but still sturdy. Both she and it had not given up, exhaustlessly.

Oh, the wonders of the sea, Have been left behind me, Oh, the wonders I will see. I will be kept I guarantee, And I won’t care if you disagree, No longer shall I be within the sea, But as proof of the saying that represents my journey and me:

Go on, and keep your head down, You never know what the waves will bring around, Anything can be found, So why not keep that head down, For you never know what is bound.

Tweet Juan Paz

Pilate’s Plight

Annaliese Ludvigson

I was amazed

This man, the king of the Jews

Standing before me

Blatantly unfazed

The Sanhedrin all hated him

The crowd despised him more I wondered what this man had done To produce such an acrimonious roar.

I wanted to release him

This man had said nothing at all

But the crowd insisted I release a killer And send the man to the skull

The chief priests hated and plotted To kill this man and preserve Their own power and their own placement But this man would only observe

He would not fight, he would not challenge; The man wouldn’t even speak. His soft countenance remained unwrinkled His spirit strong and his flesh not weak

The crowd, blinded with anger, hated him so; Who internalized the cries but he and I? But really again what choice could I have? It was he they wanted to crucify

So they crowned him with thorns and ridiculed him No indignation or resentment would they spare; They hung this man upon the cross to die And I washed my hands of the whole affair.

A Plea to Mary (Oliver)

Mrs. Rosie Driscoll

I rush heart-hushed

I cannot pause ponder in the hurry worry that I pick up put down poems wanting to slow myself to a stop but cannot in the thrum

hum of my heart racing to keep pace with the incessant tick tock of the clock pounding on the wall

Best Friends

Julie Moore

Friendships

Natalia Rivera

Picture this: a duo of misfits navigating the chaotic halls of high school, armed with inside jokes, cringeworthy memories, and a silent agreement to keep their spirit alive despite the pressures of growing up. Welcome to the world of high school friendships, where laughter reigns supreme, and maturity feels lightyears away. In this essay, we'll embark on our journey through the realm of high school friendships, exploring their unique dynamic, peculiarities, and hilarious moments.

Friendships are built on a sacred pact of secrecy. A mutual agreement to bury embarrassing stories and awkward encounters within the depths of memory. Friends in high school bond over shared experiences that would make even the most stoic person blush. It's a bond formed through shared embarrassment, sealed with a knowing look and a whispered promise.

The annals of our friendship overflow with tales of epic proportions, each more absurd than the last. These memories act as the glue that binds us together, reminding us that no matter how crazy life gets, we’ll always have each other to laugh it off.

Amidst the laughter and chaos, friendships also serve as therapy sessions, where friends take on the roles of amateur counselors and comedians alike. Whether offering a sympathetic ear after a breakup or providing advice on navigating the complexity of our social lives, friends offer a shoulder to lean on and a joke to lighten the mood.

Friends, with their laughter, shared memories, and support, are a testament to the enduring power of the high school years, and a fantastic source of entertainment along the way. It's the laughing with friends that adds the spice of life to our high school experience.

New York Juan Paz

The Io Experiment Katerina Skowronek

It was an experiment of sorts- well, several experiments in one. (Although that is not the best method for running experiments.) I had been hired to test the living facility installed on the surface of Jupiter’s moon Io by the Billionaire. Few people had been willing to apply, since Io is the most volcanically active world in the solar system- but even so, I was lucky to be offered the position. After accepting the offer, I was required to sign a contract which outlined its details:

1) I would live for five years in the facility on Io.

2) I would be allowed to leave at any time; but leaving early would result in my forfeit of the $60 million payment for fulfilling the position.

3) Should the facility fail and I die in Io’s lava, my body would be retrieved if possible, and the Billionaire would give the family members indicated on my will an amount of money proportional to the time I had spent on Io. (I am glad that the facility did not fail in the time I was there, but it was a comfort to know there was a plan in case it did.)

The Io Experiment (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

4) I would not be able to receive any communication or have internet access, despite being able to send messages and objects out.

5) I would be allowed to ask for anything; and I would receive whatever I asked for. (Within reason, of course. I had to take into account that the airlock was only 7 feet in diameter and it would take four weeks for anything from Earth to reach me.)

6) I would be able to request food to be made by a robot or I could cook my own meals.

Officially, the experiment was to see if the facility would function properly and support life for five years. But it was really more to see how a person would develop over the course of five years in total isolation. I knew that when I signed on, but I did not fully realize it. Not until I was on the shuttle, watching the Earth fall away and then disappear as I neared my destination, did I truly understand what that might mean.

I spent the first few days on Io in a state of shock, walking around and around the large dome that was the facility. I talked to myself confusedly and stared, terrified, at the lava outside.

The Io Experiment (cont.) Katerina

Skowronek

It took just those few days for it to really sink in what I had signed up for. After those first few days, I managed to shake myself out of the stupor. I sent for a hand-crank sewing machine, several yards of thick cloth, plenty of good thread, and curtain rods. While I waited for the things to come, I measured the windows. I found the facility’s manual and read it through as many times as I could, learning everything I could about how it would keep me safe and what I could do to keep it working. By the time the things I had sent for arrived, I had the manual memorized, cover to cover, and I knew where all the tools I would need for any maintenance were kept.

The rest of the first year I spent making plans, ordering books and supplies from Earth for those plans, and writing letters to my family on Earth. Now that I had curtains covering the windows, I was able to focus on other things much more easily. I got copies of every single book by Diana Wynne Jones, and I ordered other books I had enjoyed or been wanting to read. I practiced my violin, I experimented with designing knitting patterns, and generally kept busy.

The Io Experiment (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

I was trying to stave off loneliness and homesickness by doing as much as I could, all the time. I still felt lonely though: I talked to myself; knitted stuffed animals and talked to them; named the food robot (Yam, after the robot in Hexwood) and talked to it as well. As much as I tried to avoid feeling homesick, I still missed everyone and everything about home. In my few idle moments, memories swam in front of my eyes, and faces of my loved ones on Earth flitted past. They seemed to call for me to come Home.

Yet I did not go near the exit out of sheer determination. I would see this experiment through to the end. I kept the curtains drawn to avoid the awful truth outside and did not cry as long as the lights were on.

In the second year, I crumbled. I was absolutely miserable and did not get much done. Much of the time I spent curled up watching the few movies I was able to have in the facility. Those movies which would have made me happy on Earth only made me more upset on Io. The only things I did regularly were maintenance checks on the dome. Any other things I had to do in order to keep the place and my things in good repair, I did sporadically without my heart in.

The Io Experiment (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

My resolve to stay held; but only barely. The curtains stayed drawn and the lights were frequently out.

I started the third year the same way I had spent the second. It was dreary- I felt as if there was nothing to do, despite everything I could have done. I began neglecting my routine maintenance checks, as I saw no point in them. Which is why, only a quarter of the way through the third year, the system warning alarms went off. The alarms indicated that the facility was experiencing a failure in one of the air filters, and that left as it was for over a day, the failure could escalate into a breach of the safety mechanisms preventing volcanic material from entering the dome. It woke me from my miserable lethargy, forcing me into a panicky realization that I wasn’t ready to die!, and I rushed to fix the issue. I found that I still had the facility manual memorized, which helped me keep calm enough to approach the issue with a level head. While investigating the source, I discovered that the filters needed cleaning and recalibration, but were not actually failing. My racing heart finally slowed to its proper rhythm, but I was still rather alarmed by what had happened.

The Io Experiment (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

I spent the rest of the day checking, cleaning, and otherwise repairing every aspect of the facility’s systems. I realized that I could not continue to live the way I had been- if you could even call that living- and, in an effort to remind myself of why the maintenance checks were important, I opened the curtains. It was only out of sheer determination that I kept them open, but I did. I closed them at night and when I especially needed to focus, but other than that, the curtains stayed open for the rest of the third year. I would not neglect the maintenance checks again.

After recovering from the safety scare, I searched the facility and found my lists of plans and ideas from the first year. I reviewed the plans, took inventory of everything I had in the dome with me, and began work on the projects. I read and reread all the books I had with me, I requested new ones; on all subjects. I knitted hats, scarves, and sweaters from old patterns, new patterns, and my own patterns alike. These I sent to Earth with notes about who they should be given to.

The Io Experiment (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

I considered learning as many instruments as I could and recording every part to an orchestral piece, but eventually rejected it due to the difficulty of keeping even my violin, which I was familiar with, in good repair. However, I did work to master and memorize as much repertoire as I could on my violin.

In the fourth year, I continued as I had begun in the third year. I requested more sheet music and old recordings of pieces to listen to on a record player that I had received. I made a rotating schedule for which project I worked on each day so that I would not fall apart again. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Snippets and stories and facts, anything. I talked and sang to myself as I worked; I simply focused on keeping on. It was the most I could do. All through the fourth year, the curtains stayed open according to that custom begun in the third year. I grew used to the frightening sight of the lava, but maintained a sense of urgency for the maintenance checks.

In the fifth year, I grew excited. It was the last year, and I would go home soon. In the strange way time has, the days were interminable while the weeks rushed by.

The Io Experiment (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

I kept on as best I could, despite being filled with a restless energy. I sent letters to my family again. I spent the year in a haze of nervous excitement. I watched some of the movies again to remind myself of people and outside. I read books about anything I thought might help me with people and Earth. I requested a few books, current to the time; and was thoroughly confused by half of the material they sent. The other half was all right, I suppose. I reread my favorites from my collection to cleanse my palate. I practiced violin feverishly, and I knitted more than ever. I sorted things I would want to take with me into boxes. I tried not to worry too much about how much had changed while I was gone, but it was difficult.

Now is my last night in the facility. I have packed most of my things to be shipped out before I leave. I will leave at noon tomorrow; not quite an hour after the five-year mark is met. I have cleaned up and put the facility in good order. Tomorrow, I will say my farewells to Yam and to the rest of the dome. I will pack the remaining items and send everything out.

The Io Experiment (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

I can only wonder who will greet me when I reach Earth and what they will think of me. How strange I must have become! Will I still recognize my family? Will they recognize me? Who can say what I have become in my time on Io? I recall that the Earth is a fast-moving place, will I be able to thrive there after this quiet, slow time? My questions have no answers till I reach Earth. Grant me strength; I feel trials approach.

The last recorded words of one Katerina Skowronek before her death. Miss Skowronek died in an accident involving the crash of the shuttle intended to return her to Earth. The shuttle crashed in the asteroid belt, due to faulty programming that was left unchecked. No money was given to her surviving relatives since she did not die on Io, and no mention of her death upon the return trip was made in the contract she signed before leaving for Io. Some speculation has been made about whether her death was truly an accident, as everything sent back to Earth before her departure arrived safely, including this written description of her time on Io. However, Miss Skowronek’s relatives chose not to bring the matter to court. Miss Skowronek is survived by her mother, father, two sisters, and two brothers.

Tiger

Jake Pisano

Little Girl Lost

Julien Goulet

She remembers the days by the beach

She spent with her friends

She was just a little girl

She couldn’t comprehend

She couldn’t understand all the pain that would come

Or the lives she’d leave behind

She wished she’d see them again

But that wish came hard to find

She remembers the sweet melodies

And son cubano beats

But she also remembers her tears

As she ran out in the streets

She wondered where

Her country had gone

An evil had taken over

And quickly descended upon

Little Girl Lost (cont.)

Julien Goulet

She remembers a new world

That was different than her own

She was scared for her life

But she made it, alone

She cried and she cried

But dried out her eyes

Because she knew what she had to do

She had to survive

She’s never forgotten

Her home and her life

But she’s made new memories

As a worker, a teacher, a mother, a wife

She left Cuba

Knowing not what it would cost

But now she is my hero

And is no more little girl lost

"It

the

Game Time Reagan Lowrance

ain't over til

final whistle"Braden Lanier, '25

Love Letter Maria Wise

The ballerina pirouettes across the bounds of space

The curtain at the edge her passage bars

Her lights push past the darkened bounds that dampen weaker stars

And meet our watchful eyes with untamed grace.

Her swan-winged light danced sharply through our scannings of the skies

Her calls for love instilled in us false dread

We saw the shadows posing as a snake rearing its head

Soft light held threats in our mistaken eyes.

We saw her dance go on and turned in fear from her warm face

Astonished by her mighty spinning glow

We hid our eyes from all the light she bore.

And so the dance goes on without a watcher e’er in place

Our terror stopping praise she should have known

She lights the heavens, lonely evermore.

The Seven Deadly Sins

CW Johnston

Growing Mold

Andrew Matherne

I once toasted bread with my toaster

When I held the world in my hand, But life's been a cruel roller coaster, And today, all my toast turns out tan.

In yesteryear I was a hero, A baker acclaimed far and wide. My golden-browned grains were of stupendous stature.

From crusts, even curmudgeons cried.

But then I met strife from a demon deranged Who cursed me to bake boorish breadThat sits in the toaster completely unchanged; Now I feel I'd be better off dead.

My only true passion! Mon but dans la vie!

Destroyed... desecrated... demolished. I traveled the globe seeking one to repair me While watching my dreams be abolished.

I, in my kitchen, while rotting away Long for those great days of old—

When I would make toast that would win me the day 'Stead of lying untouched growing mold.

Growing Mold Orchestral Quintet Andrew Matherne https://musescore.com/user/20361241/scores/152 59390

Flying to Victory Reagan Lowrance

A Love Letter to Life

Marie Wiedman

I find reasons to fall in love with you every day.

When I hear the laughter of my friends, Melodic harmonies of joy and love

Shaped gently by hours spent together

When I listen to my favorite song, And I hear the guitar and the drums And remember every little memory Of everything this song has meant to me.

I fall in love with you

When I see the face of someone new And wonder what their story is. It is the bittersweet truth

That I will never know them as well as you do.

I fall in love with you every time

That I cry over my broken heart

Because how else is life to be lived

If not with both the ups and downs?

A Love Letter to Life (cont.)

Marie Wiedman

I fall in love with you every time it rains. Sometimes the rain reminds me of joy, of spring, Of things made brand new. Other times I think it is nice To know that the sky cries too.

I fall in love with you in every candid moment. When it doesn’t matter how you look, How you sound, how you act.

When the only thing that matters Is that you are alive.

I fall in love with you when I watch those moments.

I love seeing the smiles of strangersThe truest of smiles that they save

For the truest of moments.

A Love Letter to Life (cont.)

Marie Wiedman

I fell in love with you at every concert

When I didn’t dance or sing along

But just stood

And let the music surround me.

And I felt alive.

And every time that the sun shines

I find myself thinking this life is nice

And just how beautiful it is

That the sun that gives life to the earth Is the same sun that gives life to me.

I fall in love with you every spring, summer, and fall

And in every cold, bitter winter;

Even if I can’t wait for it to be over

Because it reminds me of the joy of summer

And of wonderful things to come.

I fall in love with you when I look back and remember The beginning of a journey

And see how far I have come

Even if I have many more steps to take

A Love Letter to Life (cont.)

Marie Wiedman

I fall in love with you when I close my eyes

After a wonderful day

The bittersweet feeling of knowing How awful and amazing it is

That I will never get to live that day again

I find reasons to fall in love with you every day

And so, as I live this life

Every day that I am alive Is a day that I am in love.

New York Grand Chandelier

Schmutz

Ella

Belated Awakening Jack

Nagtzaam

My fatigued arms brush off the dirt from the coal mines. After several agonizing minutes of turning my key in the lock cylinder, the ignition switch ignites the engine to my 1970 stick shift. My stomach growls for a warm shepherd’s pie, and my droopy eyes yearn for a cozy night’s rest. My wife Deborah won the kids after we divorced in ‘08. I can only imagine what she tells them about me. My biggest regret is not telling my daughters Jill and Ava how much I love them. Now I’m stuck with two dead-end jobs and enough debt to sink a ship! But I’ll be damned if I let Uncle Sam lock me up in prison again! Next, I leave the mines and drive for half an hour to the nearby convenience store. John gives me a nod as he grabs his coat off the coat rack and heads out the door. I nod back and yawn as I clock in. Fifty-four shifts. Fifty-four more shifts until I can pay off my debt.

Reluctantly, I walk behind the counter and begin reading the checklist of chores and checking the list of stocked items. Something highlighted in yellow catches my eye. I squint at it, and it says under the column labeled “energy drinks,” it says, “Out of TurboCharge. Order more from the supplier.” I check in the back of the store inside the refrigerator to see if there are any TurboCharges left.

Belated Awakening (cont.)

Jack Nagtzaam

The refrigerator is not for the weak. Mold and moss grow on every corner and crack of the thing. It’s a wonder how the health inspectors fail to check our refrigerator. I wheeze and grab a box that’s labeled MaxTurboCharge. Gagging, I walk out of the fridge, bring the box over to the back of the energy drink stalk, and begin to add them to the consumer fridge. The eerie silence in the store is split by the front door swinging open and the bell on the door clinging. I finish stocking TurboCharge and walk back to the cash register. I can’t tell what it is about him, but the man seems familiar to me. I crack open a TurboCharge without paying for it because I don’t get paid enough for this job anyway, and I begin to chug the thing. A rush of pink, yellow, and blue colors fill the room, and the shelves begin swirling. I look up at the man, and he pistol whips me with a revolver.

I wake up on a freezing rock with several other men around me. I’m equipped with a heavy backpack, shield, and spear. A legionary screams, “It’s the Persians! Up now! Caesar won’t be pleased to see you die!” I look around as the men who moments ago were sleeping like logs sprint into a circle formation, stacking shields facing forwards next to each other and on top of each other. I run to an open space in the formation and brace myself as I push my shield into the air next to other shields.

Belated Awakening (cont.)

Jack Nagtzaam

The man next to me says, “Albus, remember, if you and I survive, we may retire to the village.” I nod my head, and my voice cracks as I respond, saying, “okay.” My heart beats a million miles per hour as we are rushed from every side of the formation. Yelling ensues. Swords, spears, and arrows hit our shields.

This is where I die. Why has God forsaken me to this fate? I’m a good person. Well, I think I am. I go to church on Sunday! I plunge my spear into a Persian soldier who is hitting my shield with his sword. He gasps. He slowly bows his head while standing to look at the injury and grabs the spear with both hands. His vibrant, dark blue eyes turn pastel blue. I don’t know how to feel. How do I feel? Sad, angry, happy—I can’t tell. But I have been given a second chance to live. Moments later, our formation breaks as an elephant charges through our legion. The beast’s trunk knocks me at least 30 feet into the air. Winded, I fall on my back and reach for my spear. A sword plunges into my hand, and I let out a bloodcurdling scream. I roll over with my hand still on the sword as the Persian soldier who stabbed me attempts to finish me off with a spear. Thankfully, a legionary knocks the Persian soldier to the ground and takes the sword out of my hand.

Belated Awakening (cont.)

Jack Nagtzaam

With the Persian soldier occupied with other fighting, the legionary opens his backpack and ties a cloth around my hand and then yells, “Go on now the fight’s not over!” I yell, “this is madness!” Elephants, horses, arrows, and men are flying every which way. The Persians are starting to lose, with their men dropping faster than us despite our outnumbered army. The final Persian drops to the ground, gasping for air while saying his final words, “Curse yee, Romans.”

Only twenty of us died after this fight, compared to the 300 deaths of the Persians. The man who addressed me as Albus earlier limps over to me and says in a deep scratchy voice, “You can finally be with your kids now. Your service is over.” I drop down to my knees and sob. I then pass out and wake up on the floor behind the cash register. Two cops stand over me and stop performing CPR on my chest. I cough as the cigarettes slip out of my jeans and fall out of the box onto the floor. One of the cops picks up one of the cigs and says, “Maybe a little less of these, huh? You need to be taking care of your body, not hurting it.” I kindly nod my head in agreement and stand up. I open my phone to the lock screen of my daughters and smile.

Urban Juan Paz

Into the Deep

Nancy McDougal

When I first dove into the salty water of the Atlantic

I found myself wanting to swim away I found myself swept up in the ocean’s arms; It was as if a giant had come to hold all of us splashing through its own wavering hands

And how warm the icy water felt, being held like that

The second time I dove in I felt myself slip through the creature’s fingers

Tumbling through waves and being pushed across the sand

Flipping and turning and being unable to surface

When I finally breached the water I took in a new breath

And I walked onto mushy sand Into frigid air

And nothing had changed I breathed in another new breath.

Flower in the Green

Ella Schmutz

An Ode to All

Charlotte Benson

Let us plead to them, all listen:

Let violence not corrupt our vision

Let us keep our joy

Let none be deployed

Let our arms spread wide

Let no one hide.

Let our mountains stand tall

Let our canyons stay deep

Let our fields be lush

Let our waters rush

Let us all be free.

Lord, please help us,

For this is a land of opportunity.

The Flavor of Fear

Ms. Meredith Tombs

What am I afraid of?

Or does it even matter?

Will the answer to that question change anything?

All that matters is that I can name my own fearknow itand overcome it.

Identify where that fear stems fromstudy itunderstand itand stomp it out.

Instead of hiding from my fears, what if...

What if I sought out more?

More fearmore things that make me afraid –

Because - doesn’t fear make us feel things?

The Flavor of Fear (cont.)

Ms. Meredith Tombs

And when we can feel, then we can act with passion with purpose. Fear might drive us to act where we might have been too comfortable to act before. And when we encounter and overcome fear, we might just find that we had let fear keep us from freedom, exceptionality, and a life bigger and better than we ever imagined.

Before we can say truly that we are not afraidwe must first find fear instead of running from her. And when we conquer rather than fleethen, I think we might be free.

Bridge Juan Paz

The One Left Behind Katerina Skowronek

The mansion is quiet, its rooms dark and still. Its arches and spires, though majestic in times gone by, now seem ominous against the dark sky. The once grand and stately grounds have been long neglected; they are filled with brambles and weeds. Their wild expanse surrounds the building for miles, only petering out into more tamed flora close to the town. A lengthy drive sweeps an elegant curve from the entryway of the house to the road, which stretches past the town in one direction and far off into the distance in the other. A wood lies across the way.

An imposing wrought iron gate sits at the start of the front drive, all spikes and curlicues. A hooded figure stands in front of the gate, illuminated by the scornful moon. The moon thinks their errand foolish, doomed to failure, but they pay it no mind. Instead, they thoughtfully study the house through the bars of the gate as they wait for the others to arrive. After all, the moon may be wrong.

A few figures trickle out of the shadows. Two from the town; another from the woods across the way, a fourth from the road. The four approach the figure at the gate and the five begin conversing.

The One Left Behind (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

It is later, almost dawn. Hands have been shaken all around, and papers gathered. The hooded one opens the gate, and the other four proceed up the drive. They disappear into the house.

The gate closes behind them.

The Fifth was never there.

---

The First is lost before they leave the reception room; smothered by the fireplace rug.

Three continue on, stoic. ---

The Second is lost while they leave the kitchen; gone through a different door and eaten by the basement furnace.

Two continue on, nervous. ---

The Third is lost after they leave the library; a spell cast before strikes back, leaving an empty husk.

One continues on, afraid.

The One Left Behind

Katerina Skowronek

(cont.)

The One enters the servants quarters with trepidation. The house may be abandoned, but it is not empty or dead. It had fought and tripped and prevented his companions, but now that he is alone, it is quiet. It unsettles him. Who is he to be allowed passage through its halls?

The wall to the left is covered in service bells, each labeled simply with the name of a room. The wall to the left has a few bunks, neatly made (but covered in dust). Across the room is a large wooden trunk, locked. The ceiling is open, the rafters visible. The room feels oppressive, cramped; yet it is nearly empty.

Something catches the boy's ear, a rustle of sound; strange in the empty room.

Something catches the boy's eye, a flicker of light; slightly amiss.

There is a shift in the air, the lightest breeze brushing his cheek, out of place in the otherwise still space.

He feels the prickle of eyes on him and shivers. His eyes rise to the rafters, but cannot place the sensations.

He moves to open the next door.

---

The house will not let him leave the room.

The One Left Behind (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

He has tried everything he can think of to escape, but the house has prevented him at every turn. The more it insists, the more frightened he becomes. It wants him to stay where he is. But he and the house are not the only ones in the room, and he wants to leave.

He sits on a bed, shaking. He looks about the room, again, miserably. It is no help. Nor are the tears threatening to pool in his eyes. He covers those eyes with his hands; he stops thinking and breathes. ---

When he is calm, he opens his eyes. He does not move, but listens and waits.

There is a rustle in the rafters, the prickle of eyes is on him again.

Still he does not move.

It is a long time before the other stands before him. She flutters from the rafters and studies him cautiously. She is still uncertain of him, though she has been watching the whole time. He stays silent, waiting and watching her too. Slowly, she relaxes, settling her feathers.

"New?" She asks curiously.

He hesitates, before tilting his head questioningly; prompting her to explain.

The One Left Behind (cont.)

Katerina Skowronek

"We wait. They ring. We go. For help. Invisible. No ring. Stuck. Not allowed. Even now. Have to."

His eyes widen marginally at the stilted explanation she chirps out, but he stays silent, so she keeps trying.

"They left. Are gone. Never here? No matter. Long time. Still here. All alone.

Only one. Stuck. Not allowed. Not allowed..."

She trails off, nervous and sad. He waits. She studies him a moment, then hops a bit towards the chest at the end of the room.

"Bound."

He hesitates a moment, then stands up and approaches it.

The house lets him. ---

The bird hops away, fluttering a bit to hover behind him. She watches over his shoulder as he examines the chest.

It is made of dark wood planks, sturdily built, without gaps or weak points. Iron bands wrap around it, and it is adorned in carvings. Relief carvings that depict beasts cleaning house and serving at table decorate the sides; the lid is covered in grotesque faces. Runes are carved into the iron bands, and there is a great iron lock holding it shut.

The One Left Behind (cont.) Katerina Skowronek

It seems made of a quality too fine for the servants' quarters.

He murmurs to himself, studying the runes. He can see how they have bound her. The chest must come open.

---

There is no key, though a keyhole seems the only way to open it. The lock is decorated with runes as well, and these spell disaster for one who would trick the lock into opening.

But these more prominent runes are not the only ones on the lock. Smaller ones, carefully scratched out in tiny writing around the keyhole, will take more time to decipher.

It is a riddle.

He sits back to consider it.

---

Carefully, he leans forward to whisper his answer into the lock.

It softly clicks open. The lock falls into his hand. He pockets it.

The bird stands watching, full of anxious tension. The house is tense too. He opens the lid.

The One Left Behind (cont.) Katerina Skowronek

A white orb of light rises out of its depths and drifts towards the bird. She stands, transfixed, as it gets closer and closer to her.

The orb sinks into her chest.

Something settles into place, and the whole house relaxes.

He leaves the chest open. ---

He makes his way to the door, and this time the house allows him. But before he steps through, he turns back. The house is watching him, waiting to see what he will do. She is watching him too.

He wordlessly holds out his hand to the bird. She stares, wide-eyed, lost in everything this moment means. The chest opening, the door- a way out.

"Can go?" Her words are soft, confused, afraid; but even so hold the smallest lilt hinting at hope and awe.

A sorrowful pang travels through the boy, but his hand remains steady.

His words come out in a whisper.

"Whenever you're ready."

The moon was wrong after all.

The Lowercase

Juan Paz

The Rain

Iona McCluskey

As she came in from the pouring rain, the library at Cambridge smelled as it always did, of old books and old people. Juliet Tennyson couldn’t stand another day of it. If her father liked it here so much, he could stay a little while longer, couldn’t he? And what kind of father didn’t have his driver’s license? It was ridiculous. Dr. Henry David Tennyson, renowned researcher of the Latin language, couldn’t drive a car.

Juliet glanced at her watch. Eight forty-eight, eighteen minutes after she told Tess she would be at her house. And she still had to wrangle her dad out of the library and drive him across town. As she strode down the aisles to Private Study 8B, the tall shelves of musty books enclosing her on both sides felt claustrophobic.

As a little girl, the library was a maze. She could still imagine coming here with her mother after school was finished, her dad waiting at the entrance and picking her up and spinning her around as soon as she came in the door. Then he would set her down and tell her to close her eyes and count to fifty. She counted quickly but quietly, not wanting to be in trouble with the librarians.

The Rain (cont.)

Iona McCluskey

Once she hit fifty, she and her mother set out to find her dad. Through the reading rooms, interrupting studying students, her mother apologizing as she ran. Through the archives of Charles Darwin and the library of Lord Acton, past the 1455 Gutenberg Bible. The library hadn’t seemed cramped or crowded or boring; it was an intricate puzzle, full of new pieces to explore, an oasis from the rest of the world.

Eventually she would find him, hiding in the stacks or consumed in his readings, Latin comedies or the writings of Caesar, far away from her. Sometimes she could stare at him for minutes and he would still be lost in the language. It wasn’t until her mother found them that he would awaken from the literature.

These days the only thing her father could muster up any care for was Latin. Juliet stood in the doorway to the study room. Her father leaned over the back of a flustered student.

“No, no, no, amabor esse is a passive periphrastic, it must be translated as ‘you must be loved.’ This is Plautus, for goodness sakes.”

“I know, I know, but it just... it looks like a deponent,” replied the student. Juliet could see the tears welling up in his eyes.

The Rain (cont.)

Iona McCluskey

“Well, I don’t care what it looks like, the fact is it’s a passive periphrastic. Now, look at this next sentence–”

“Dad.”

Finally, her father looked back to the door and saw Juliet.

“Yes, Juliet, hello. I’ll be ready to go in just a second, I just need to explain the third principal part of a deponent verb. An easy concept, if Jeremiah here could focus for once in his life.”

“Dr. Tennyson, it’s been a long week–”

Juliet cut him off. The faster she could get her dad out of here, the better for her and for this student.

“I’m late, Dad. Tess was expecting me twenty minutes ago.”

“Really, Juliet, it will only be a minute more. You know what they say, patientia vincit omnia.”

Juliet felt the anger well up in her chest. Her father sure liked to lecture about patience when he couldn’t show any towards his students or his daughter.

“We’re leaving.”

She turned back and walked out of the room. Behind her she could hear her father apologize to Jeremiah as he walked out of the room. Juliet walked faster, through the stacks and lobby out to the car.

The Rain (cont.)

Iona McCluskey

Into the parking lot, and the car was in sight. She ran across, through the sea of honking horns and expletives from angry grad students and the pouring rain, not caring who she cut off. She found her way to the car, got in, and locked the door. Seconds later, her father came up and made a few violent attempts to tear open the door. Then he pounded on the window.

“Bloody hell, Juliet, open this damn door! I’m your father, for goodness’ sake” he yelled.

“Not until you act like it!”

Against her own will, Juliet burst out in sobs. “I’m just so sick of having to take care of you all the time. You are my father, and I wish you would act like it. It’s not that I don’t want to be there for you, but you’ll never talk. Be honest with yourself, Dad, can you remember a real conversation we’ve had since the accident?”

“You know I see a therapist now. I pay for it with my own money. All because you won’t talk to me, you won’t tell me anything, and if I kept going on like that I was going to drown in grief. I tried, like you did, to find some way to get it all gone without talking. But the parties and the drinking, none of it worked. I had to tell someone. And of course, I’m not all fixed, but I do feel better now. Really.”

The Rain (cont.)

Iona McCluskey

Her father stopped all effort to try to get in the car. He just stood out there, staring into Juliet’s eyes.

She went on. “I think it would be such a weight off your shoulders, if you would just talk about it with me. Or with anyone. I don’t care. Just stop keeping it in, please.”

“Juliet,” her father said.

She rolled down the window.

“I miss your mom.”

Juliet unlocked the door, and he got in. As the rain cleared, they drove off.

Heavenly Light

Ella Schmutz

Found His Home

Mr. Albert Hall

In the bustling halls of Bishop Ireton, amidst the excitement of the Cardinals, there lived a tiny mouse named Pupil. While the students stressed about something called “ the Rauer test” and hyped up things like “Swift” and “Youngboy,” Pupil scurried about, unnoticed, weaving through lockers and darting beneath desks.

Pupil had made this school his home, finding cozy nooks in the room of McNutt or the one with the creatures they call the chicks. He nibbled on Takis crumbs and chicken tenders left behind by busy students. He grew accustomed to the ringing of bells, lecturing of teachers and the serenity of mass. The nights were quiet, sometimes lonely, but the students coming in early to run and lift things served as a welcome alarm clock.

On some evenings, a lot of people would gather in the room with the glossy wooden floor. They would stomp, scream, and do this thing called “the Cardinal Rumble.” One chilly evening, during a particularly intense game with this bouncy ball and rather large students, Pupil found himself in the heart of the action. From under the bleachers, he saw a giant named Mena throw the ball through a hole just as a loud sound shot through the air. The students erupted in cheers, ran onto the floor, and jumped in glee.

Found His Home (cont.)

Mr. Albert Hall

From that day on, Pupil was a loyal member of the Cardinal Crazies, albeit in his own quiet way. He cheered alongside the students, his squeaks blending seamlessly with their chants. He may have been just a mouse in a school full of students, but Pupil knew he had found his home on Cambridge Road.

Blower Juan Paz

Pencil Juan Paz

Beyond ‘Very’

Emily Crabtree

1,212. That’s how many times Jane Austen uses the word ‘very’ in one of my favorite novels, Emma. I’ve always found it intriguing how a seemingly simple word like ‘very’ can wield such power able to amplify any adjective it modifies. As a child, I was often described with this intensifying adverb: ‘very outgoing,’ ‘very friendly,’ ‘very smart.’ Yet, there was one aspect of my life where ‘very’ took on an entirely different meaning—a meaning that would come to shape my perspective and resilience in ways I could never have anticipated.

My five-year-old world, which had always seemed to be so ‘very’ positive, abruptly encountered a ‘very’ different reality when my younger brother Tyler was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. He was never just Tyler; instead, he developed the unshakeable stigma of being ‘the very sick kid.’ In the midst of Tyler’s battle, my parents were often absent, trading off countless nights at the hospital to support him through his treatments. I became aware that their absence left a void, both emotionally and practically. Simple routines like family dinners and weekend outings became nonexistent, replaced by hospital visits and caregiving responsibilities.

Beyond ‘Very’ (cont.)

Emily Crabtree

The presence of ‘very’ in my life now symbolized the stark contrast between the happiness I had known and the challenges we now faced. Tyler became ‘very’ different from his normal self due to chemotherapy: extremely angry, emotionally volatile, and difficult to like. However, those trying times taught me the true value of family, resilience, and the importance of me stepping up when faced with adversity. An unexpected way I discovered my role in aiding Tyler, while also strengthening our relationship, was math. Tyler had been held back in preschool, and during his treatment, I took it upon myself to help teach him in the hospital. Armed with a cheap blue plastic calculator and a binder full of math problems, we delved into basic addition, gradually progressing to multiplication and division. Those hospital room math sessions became the step towards a normal sibling relationship despite our time apart.

While Tyler’s treatment marked a significant milestone, our journey through childhood cancer was far from over. As I grew older and my family continued to grapple with the implications of childhood cancer, I felt compelled to become more vocal in my community about spreading awareness. In elementary school, we launched ‘Pennies for Patients,’ collecting small change to support childhood cancer research, and also organized successful fundraising lemonade stands.

Beyond ‘Very’ (cont.)

Emily Crabtree

I spoke at fundraising events for a local organization, as well as attending and volunteering at a camp for childhood cancer siblings a place that holds a ‘very’ special place in my heart. This September, I brought childhood cancer awareness to my high school, distributing ribbons and wristbands to students and teachers educating them during Childhood Cancer Awareness Month.

As my involvement in raising awareness for childhood cancer grew, my passion for technology and its potential to make a difference also expanded. I discovered this passion during my freshman year when I was placed in a programming class. Delving deeper into programming and various technology fields, I recognized the immense potential for technology to catalyze advancements across a multitude of fields. During my sophomore year winter break, I participated in ‘Inspirit AI,’ where I learned about AI, machine learning, data science, and the ethics of AI. This experience inspired me to pursue a career as a data scientist with the ambition to improve the efficiency of pediatric cancer diagnosis. My brother’s journey has shown me the significant impact data science can have on the lives of children and families facing similar challenges.

Beyond ‘Very’ (cont.)

Emily Crabtree

I am dedicated to being a voice for change, both in the fight against childhood cancer and in the tech industry. In the spirit of Emma’s journey towards self-discovery and transformation, my ‘very’ ordinary aspirations have evolved into a ‘very’ extraordinary mission: to use data science to revolutionize pediatric oncology.

Gilded Divinity

Annaliese Ludvigson

"The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises.”

--Ecclesiastes 1:5

Exodus

Mrs. Rosie Driscoll

In desert winds I wander head bent eyes blinded by cyclones of scalding sand

raise my fists and cry out to heaven for return to Egypt, certain slavery is better than this brutal trek no milk, no honey in sight

The Spice Must Flow

Eli Crenshaw

Acknowledgments

We would like to thank everyone who helped to make this year’s magazine a success.

Thank you to our amazing artists— students and faculty, practied professionals and burgeoning beginners. It is a blessing to facilitate the sharing of your work with this community.

Thank you to our dedicated editors for your continued cooperation, collaboration, diligence, and enthusiasm for this year’s edition.

Thank you to McCabe’s Printing Group for your partnership & production.

Bishop Ireton Administration – thank you for the endless support. We are eternally grateful for your encouragement and the means to share the works of our community!

EditorialStaff

Editors-In-Chief: Annaliese

Ludvigson & Hallie Crawford

Head Editor: Patrick Carpenter

Marketing and Communications: Jack Nagtzaam

Faculty Advisor: Ms. Tombs

Content Editors:

Patrick Carpenter

Gwen Caslow

Hallie Crawford

Nora Garland

Annaliese Ludvigson

Jack Nagtzaam

Lauren Sweda

2023-2024 Cambridge Road Literary Magazine

The Spice of Life

Cambridge Road Literary Magazine

TableofContents

TableofContents

CambridgeRoad LiteraryMagazine

A Letter from the Editors

CambridgeRoad LiteraryMagazine

The Spice of Life

Life where colors swirl and blend

Sweet Chili Sizzle

Invisible String

Invisible String (cont.)

Goblin in El Morro

The Unrequited Lover

Reagan Lowrance

Harvest Moon

A Poem for Grace

A Poem for Grace (cont.)

A Poem for Grace (cont.)

A Poem for Grace (cont.)

Tweet Juan Paz

Pilate’s Plight

Annaliese Ludvigson

A Plea to Mary (Oliver)

Best Friends

Friendships

New York Juan Paz

The Io Experiment Katerina Skowronek

The Io Experiment (cont.)

The Io Experiment (cont.) Katerina

The Io Experiment (cont.)

The Io Experiment (cont.)

The Io Experiment (cont.)

The Io Experiment (cont.)

The Io Experiment (cont.)

The Io Experiment (cont.)

Tiger

Little Girl Lost

Little Girl Lost (cont.)

Love Letter Maria Wise

The Seven Deadly Sins

Growing Mold

Flying to Victory Reagan Lowrance

A Love Letter to Life

A Love Letter to Life (cont.)

A Love Letter to Life (cont.)

A Love Letter to Life (cont.)

New York Grand Chandelier

Schmutz

Belated Awakening Jack

Belated Awakening (cont.)

Belated Awakening (cont.)

Jack Nagtzaam

Belated Awakening (cont.)

Urban Juan Paz

Into the Deep

Flower in the Green

An Ode to All

Charlotte Benson

The Flavor of Fear

The Flavor of Fear (cont.)

Bridge Juan Paz

The One Left Behind Katerina Skowronek

The One Left Behind (cont.)

The One Left Behind

(cont.)

The One Left Behind (cont.)

The One Left Behind (cont.)

The One Left Behind (cont.) Katerina Skowronek

The One Left Behind (cont.) Katerina Skowronek

The Lowercase

The Rain

The Rain (cont.)

The Rain (cont.)

The Rain (cont.)

The Rain (cont.)

Heavenly Light

Found His Home

Mr. Albert Hall