2020-2021 Cambridge Road Literary Magazine

Finding Your Voice Amidst Adversity

Cambridge Road Literary Magazine

2020-2021

Cambridge Road Literary Magazine Cover Art “Snow Leaves”

by Stella Hermann

Bishop Ireton High School was founded in 1964 as one of four high schools in the Diocese of Arlington, and is deeply rooted in the tradition of Salesian spirituality as taught by the Religious Congregation of the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales. Following our Live Jesus! Charter, the School continues an affiliation with the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales.

The Cambridge Road Club is an entirely student directed and run extracurricular club at Bishop Ireton High School. It exists to foster a love and appreciation for creative work among students through the media of art and literature.

“Let us be what we are and be that well, in order to bring honor to that Master Craftsman whose handiwork we are.”

-St. Francis de Sales

This year’s edition of Cambridge Road is dedicated to Brother Rick Wilson.

A Letter From The Editor The 2020-2021 school year will forever be remembered in the aftermath of the Covid-19 pandemic, which has made its indelible mark on history for many years to come. Everyone’s adaptability, perseverance and dedication, especially here in Cambridge Road, has spoken volumes about how quickly and courageously we as humans always step up to the challenge. I admire this shared trait we have, welding us together in the pursuit of a common goal.

In Cambridge Road, the development of a physical, print issue was always the goal, despite our continuing reliance on Google Meets in place of writing workshops; and constant emails back and forth in place of conversations held in classrooms. Creating this print issue has been a well-fought battle. Our normal bake sale fundraisers were out of the question, and garnering submissions from the student body had moved to social media announcements and emails. Yet, despite it all, we persisted. Persistence and its fruits were the bedrock of our theme this year. When the other editors and I decided on Finding Your Voice Amidst Adversity at the beginning of the school year, we thought it would perfectly encapsulate the cry for justice and equality that became increasingly visible during the summer months and continues now, as well as the shared bonds we have, facing challenges during the pandemic, and coming out stronger. However, I could not have foreseen the overwhelming amount of responses to this theme and the beautiful, creative submissions that are now published in this issue. For what is art and literature, if not to give a voice to the one who persists? To allow us to voice what we dream or fear? As you go through the various works in this year’s edition of Cambridge Road, I hope they prompt you to consider the beauty in a time that might seem dark at first, so when you come across adversity in your life, you can muster up the courage and kindness to meet it and transform it into something greater. Brother Rick once mentioned that art is merely man’s way of reaching up to the Divine; the Divine within us, and the one, infinite Creator that suspends the world around us. I know this rings true for all the submissions gathered here in this magazine, and I believe that you will see it too. Enjoy!

- Miriella Jiffar, Editor-in-Chief 2020-2021

Table of Contents Visual Art "Edgar" by Katie Kessmeier ………………………………………………………...… 8 "lifestyle" by Katie Kessmeier……………………………………………………...…. 9 "deep end" by Katie Kessmeier ……………………………………………………... 10 "Looking Ahead" by Danica Fielding ………………………………………………… 11 "childish" by Katie Kessmeier……………………………………………………..…. 12 "garden" by Katie Kessmeier………………………………………………………… 13 "The Face of Adversity" by Zachary Downey ………………………………………. 14

Poetry "Chaos Crams" by Sarah Wood ……………………………………………………... 15 "Regret" by William Brown …………………………………………………………. 16 “On the other hand” by Peyton Barnett …………………………………………… 17 "That Look in her Eye" by Emma Rice ……………………………………………….18 "Adversity is Just a Word" by Yechi Nwosu ………………………………………... 19 "Women" by Jordyn Barnett ……………………………………………………….. 20 "It's Your Day" by Kieran Kelleher ………………………………………………….. 21 "The Story of a Stream" by Audrey Pickard …………………………………………22 "Passing Storm" by Maren Baisley ………………………………………………….. 23 "My Sanctuary" by Sophia Molinari ………………………………………………24-25 "Poker" by Siena Puglisi …………………………………………………………. … 26 "A Choice" by Connell Leary ………………………………………………………... 27 "Glory to Boast" by Kathleen Delaney ………………………………………….. 28-29 Parody of Emily Dickenson's "This is my letter to the World" by Taryn Ledbetter ..30 "Football" by Jack Battaglia ………………………………………………………….31 "When Laughing does not Work Anymore" by Samantha Lee …………………… 32 "A Walk" by Aidan McNerney ……………………………………………………… 33

Table of Contents Nonfiction "The Start of a New Year" by Sara Munson …………………………………….. 34-35 “The Man He Killed” by Aidan McNerney ………………………………………36- 39 "In the Face of Adversity as an Asian American: “Meaning” as a Double-Edged Sword" by Dani Fielding …………………………………………………………. 40-42 "A Quarantine Summer" by Peyton Kalan …………………………………………. 43 "Complications due to Covid" by Elizabeth Cheney …………………………… 44-45 "What you can Learn from Airports" by Miriella Jiffar …………………………. 46-47 "The Car: A College Essay" by Miriella Jiffar …………………………………… 48- 50 "The Time Before" by Emma Rice………………………………………………. 51 –53

Photography "Peaceful Morning" and “Peachy Day” by Allison Dunnegan ……………………. 54 "Plane's Eye View" and “Raindrops” by Allison Dunnegan ……………………...…55 "Infiltrating the Surface" by Quinn Dougherty …………………………………….. 56 "Spring Flower" and “Paws in the Sand” by Allison Dunnegan …………………... 57 "Love at first Bark" and “Above the Suburbs” by Allison Dunnegan ………………58

Fiction "Fugitives" by Charlotte Benson …………………………………………………59-60 "Room 622" by Emma Rice ……………………………………………………… 61 -65 "The Tale of the Black Eyed Squids" by Jack Nagtzaam ………………………. 66-68

Thank You, Br. Rick …………………………………………………………. 69-77 Acknowledgements ……………………………………………………………78 Editorial Staff …………………………………………………………………….79

“Edgar” Katie Kessmeier

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“lifestyle” Katie Kessmeier

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“deep end” Katie Kessmeier

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“Looking Ahead” Danica Fielding

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“childish” Katie Kessmeier

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“garden” Katie Kessmeier

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“The Face of Adversity” Zachary Downey

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Chaos Crams Sarah Wood Too many voices at a time.

Too much commotion, causing crime.

In order for change, let each other speak.

For this is when we truly hear each other’s needs.

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Regret William Brown It enters like a cloud, casting shade over all as they wonder what could have been, if only.

Better safe than sorry The old cliche Relevant to those who must make a choice With safety may come regret And with risk may come no reward The decision is yours but make it wisely.

You don’t want regret at your door.

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On The Other Hand Peyton Barnett If it is good for you, it probably won't taste good.

It might not taste good, but it is healthy for you.

It might not be fun, but it is responsible.

It might take too much time, but it is beneficial for you.

We all will face adversities, but each time, we are strengthened in mind, body, or spirit.

No one is lucky enough to go through life without adversities.

You must adapt and grow from every experience.

You will be strong and overcome each challenge in whatever way fits.

Take control and make adversity good for you, as good as you possibly can, even though it probably won't taste good.

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That Look In Her Eye Emma Rice My dog hath not an ounce of good in her.

Some fiend trembles and opens her muzzle.

She is nothing but a troublesome cur, And those with objections end in a tussle.

Our living room! She has chewed the firewood Ripped apart the music in its basket And strewn her toys in piece across the floor The carpet! Our company fears to sit.

She spends her days tearing about the house, Walking upon tables, jumping on beds, Barking even at the sound of a mouse.

Her petulant tone shall stick in our heads.

Oh, but look! Sleep has shut her loving eyes.

Many sweet dreams, beloved sister mine.

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Adversity Is Just A Word Yechi Nwosu It is believed that adversity makes others feel betrayed The truth is, but is that not why it's on display?

Through adversity, one learns that they are not perfect Learn from your past in order to understand it with respect The idea of adversity may hurt you But you should not let it describe you Finding your voice in this time may feel perpetuating But one must understand it's important to not think it's complicating Some events in life may go wrong just like a drill That is why it is important to tell yourself that “ I will” It is important to persevere So that at the end, your resolutions feel clear Don’t leave your adversity like a plant in the sun Tell yourself to go and have some fun Hard times may feel tough But that is just another word for rough At last, one word has multiple meanings Do not let this ruin your evening Your struggles make you stronger and don’t let them hit I assure you, if you follow this you won’t quit

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Women Jordyn Barnett Strong, beautiful, and courageous.

Sometimes, we are overlooked and told to be silent.

But my parents taught me that I can do anything.

So I got stronger and stood up against those who doubted me I played a lot of sports and got my black belt But none came easily.

But still, I was told that we’re in a man’s world And that all these accomplishments were just handed to me When did only men get to be strong?

I worked just as hard if not harder to get to where I am now.

I’m a black belt in taekwondo, a proud rower on the crew team, a libero on the volleyball team, and becoming an aeronautical engineer.

Women can do a lot more than you may think.

And we are loud.

We will find our voice in the adversity of the world

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It’s Your Day Kieran Kelleher When you wake up before the sun, what starts your day?

A noise in the distance that comes without delay.

Oh well, it’s started, it’s time to go.

What’s next, where to, how do you know?

That today will be good and bliss Who determines this?

The body, the soul, the mind So much can happen as you flow through time However, what determines good is what’s within.

When friends are around, your boredom will not win Those who arouse want in others will have the whole world But those who don’t will walk a lonely road So go out, make friends, have fun and joy Go on, now, walk out, today is your day.

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The Story of a Stream Audrey Pickard A flowing stream.

Its twists and turns live to tell a story of foes fought.

A rock or tree root is a hitch in the plans.

Will it refrain from advancing?

Will it dissipate?

Or will it champion the plight?

The crystal water keeps running.

Another piece of the story is written.

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Passing Storm Maren Baisley Sun seeps through the four pane window In the corner of my room.

Then the rain moves in, And its pungent sense of doom.

An angel’s tear falls on my cheek, But I mistake it for my own.

That somber feeling in my chest, Is making itself known.

The rain tap dances on the roof, All through the night, But by next morning the sun rises, My hopeful light.

Everchanging, unpredictable, is true.

Learn to find comfort in changing thingsThe storm will pass soon.

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My Sanctuary Sophia Molinari This place. This place I call my sanctuary.

My sanctuary from the world, My sanctuary from it all.

With every blade of green in the meadow, Blowing with their own minds, I sit in their comfort.

I wish to be like them.

Free, yet grounded.

Individual, yet common.

Peaceful, yet sprightly.

I wish to stay here.

Alone, yet accompanied.

Quiet, yet wild.

Limitless, yet confined.

This place. This place I call my sanctuary.

With every thought in my mind, With every ounce of my being, I defy the wishes of the wind.

And be the one that I wish to be.

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Block out all others, Who wish to take me away from my sanctuary And find those, Who wish to be with me in my sanctuary.

Every step, every mile, Every stride, every feeling, Through the land as infinite as the stars.

As infinite as grains of sand between my toes.

I call out with my voice, strong.

Stronger than my adversary.

For its power is lost on me.

The wind is my adversity.

The blades of green are my companions.

And in this beautiful land, The meadow is my sanctuary.

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Poker Siena Puglisi Take your seats...

Pay the price.

You throw one chip in, The dealer is bound to begin the game soon.

Cards placed flat on the table at random, Eyes lock with the other player, As he tosses his next chip on the table.

You can tell from his content and sly grin That he has luck and he thinks he’ll win. the pressure to raise, to match, or to fold… you stare at the chips already thrown at the table, you’re stuck. there’s no way out of this mold. as the dealer slowly turns his cards, your opponent’s face says all there is to know. you’ve been beaten, defeated, and now you must go.

As you pace towards the door, Someone taps you on the back, You turn and see the dealer facing you, dressed in all black.

He explains you’re confused and clearly misunderstand, Because every time you fold, you’re dealt a new hand.

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A Choice Connell Leary I know the road is ending But I can build a bridge.

The hole is growing larger But I know how to stitch.

I’m drowning in this river But I can swim on by.

I’m falling off a cliff But I know how to fly.

I won’t say I can't take it Because I know I can.

I will make the choice to stay Working to the end.

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Glory To Boast Kathleen Delaney At the eleventh hour, Of the eleventh day, Of the eleventh month, This war will end.

Those were the words, Those that made this war seem like a game, One where Fate flips a coin to see what happens next, Where Death stands at his gates waiting to let them in, Where War herself laughed at our stupidity.

Allies turned enemy, Allies who dragged others into this game, Allies who boasted glory at a price.

Fate flips her coin, Watching to see which side it lands, Heads, they live to see another day, Tails, they breathe your last that day, Fate watches, and waits, and lets Death continue.

Death stood waiting at the gates, Ready to welcome all into his realm, French, British, American, German, Italian, Russian He wasn’t picky, never was, And never will be.

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Then there’s War herself, Call her whatever you want, But War laughs, mocking our stupidity, She waits for no one’s permission, No one’s opinion.

She enters headstrong, and leaves when she decides.

40 million bodies left in her wake, 40 million families torn apart by her sadistic nature.

Once the war is won she boasts, To Fate, To Death.

She boasts glory for all to hear, Even the ones who were forgotten, The ones who were scared, The ones who were killed, And the ones who survived.

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Parody of “This is my letter to the World” by Emily Dickinson Taryn Ledbetter This is my letter to the world That never admired me The simple task I gave, was to respect creativity I thought the message was clear How could they not yet see For the love of this - Good - planet, Why do they tread - on me?

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Football Jack Battaglia Forty helmed comrades Waging war on a three-hundred foot battlefield In preparation for the upcoming conflict At the week’s terminus Trotting and sprinting encompass the motions Receiving and blocking are gain Tackling is our foe’s loss Redone is every repetition Working hard never fails to yield results Legs and arms pumping Sweat trickling down our faces Pain is suppressed by gratification Readiness is preparation’s prize And ready are we From this violence we gain pure exhilaration The gridiron is our refuge As one unit we rise One entity in defeat The blood of my brother Is my blood spilt as well

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When Laughing Does Not Work Anymore Samantha Lee I’ve heard the names, I laugh it off.

“Ok, but like, where are you really from?”

I laugh it off.

The one-size-fits-all stereotype, I laugh it off.

They pull their eyes back, I laugh it off.

They use and abuse my culture, I laugh it off.

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A Walk Aidan McNerney Open the door and step out into A light morning mist suspended And a cool autumn breeze And a warm blue sweatshirt It’s quiet out here Step off the wooden porch We walk slowly over A sea of dew drops On the emerald green grass And crunching golden leaves And up the hill we used to roll down And across the open field To the edge of the woods Walk the winding path Alone among the towering trees And a clearing around the bend And gleaming sunrays And a house on a hill But we turn around Walk back through the woods And across the field and down the hill And over dew drops and autumn leaves The way we’ve walked a hundred times And we’re back at the start And we sit on the porch And they open the door and step out And say good morning And it’s peaceful out here

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The Start of A New Year Sara Munson

2020 was a year of adversity and hardship. So, many were hoping for change. But, when the clock struck midnight on December 31, 2020, Julia felt nothing. She thought that this year was going to be a new beginning for her, a better year.

With the COVID-19 vaccine coming and going back to school she thought that the strike of a clock would reverse everything that happened in the last year, and she would feel different. But everything was still the same. Nothing changed. It was almost as if she thought that this countdown clock was magical, like the clock in Cinderella. She thought when it struck midnight everything would return to normal because 2020 would be over. This proved not to be the case. So, Julia decided to keep pushing forward, and focus on the good. She returned to school, saw friends she hadn’t seen in a year, and met her teachers in person. She felt great, maybe everything had changed. But shortly thereafter, Julia came home from school one day, and her family was gathered around the TV, their eyes glued to the screen. Usually when she came home, they were all working, so she knew something bad had happened. It was January 6, 2021, and on the TV was a live news feed of protesters breaking through the doors of the Capitol.

Julia was in shock. She was scared and worried for the people inside. She had no idea how this could have happened. Julia had no idea that two political parties could be so conflicted that the democracy of the United States of America was at risk. Democracy is a freedom, we can vote for who we want to lead our country and it is a privilege that we should be grateful for.

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Julia was saddened to see that the country was divided during the hard times that she was living in. Thousands of people died from the coronavirus, and our country still could not stand together to unite and fight it. For Julia and her family, it was almost as if time had stopped. The entire nation had just frozen at this awful sight, because of the people that represent us politically, being in danger, and the awful sight of a confederate flag being waved from the Capitol. Five people died at the Capitol riot because our nation is so split. At a time when everyone was just holding out for the vaccine, it was as if another block had been thrown in the road. As if the nation had not already witnessed enough, Julia and her family, along with millions of others, were shocked. Julia saw this as a wakeup call for the nation. Julia realized that this roadblock in their democracy could be overcome. Julia and her family wanted to change the way the past year had been, so that future generations would not have to go through what they did.

So, we should do the same. So many people died from COVID-19, and now another five people died because of disagreements in our democracy, which is supposed to be peaceful. As a nation we have all overcome adversity this year, we have all felt powerless while thousands of people have died.

We have felt powerless while the Capitol was being breached.

But now is our chance to become powerful. We need to unite as a nation, no matter your political views to make this year better than the last. We as a nation can stop thousands of more people from dying of COVID-19. We as a nation can settle disagreements peacefully, and learn to accept others’ political views, even if we do not agree with them. No matter who you are, you can make a difference in changing the world that we live in today, to make the rest of 2021 a better year.

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The Man He Killed "Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin!

"But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place.

"I shot him dead because — Because he was my foe, Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Off-hand like — just as I — Was out of work — had sold his traps — No other reason why.

"Yes; quaint and curious war is!

You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown."

-- Thomas Hardy (1902, after the Boer War) The following essay is in response to Thomas Hardy’s poem, “The Man He Killed” (above) and addresses the literature surrounding World War I, specifically All Quiet On The Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque, a novel that all Sophomores are required to read at Bishop Ireton.

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The Men They Killed Aidan McNerney Over the years, much has been written on the subject of war and its effects on the minds of soldiers. Although it is often portrayed in a patriotic manner, many firsthand perspectives of war consider questions of whether it is actually a noble cause. Despite being written over ten years earlier, “The Man He Killed” has many themes in common with the poetry and literature of World War I, particularly the idea that war has little meaning to the soldiers who actually fight in it and that one’s wartime enemies are not very different from oneself.

This poem explores the idea that the actual meaning of the war is unimportant to the mind of a soldier. Hardy says that the soldier he fought could have been his friend if they had met in a different time, and that Hardy has no real reason to oppose him except that he is following orders. He says “I shot him dead because -/ Because he was my foe,/ Just so: my foe of course he was;/ That’s clear enough; although,” revealing that the only reason he can give for killing this man is because he is a “foe.” This soldier has committed no personal offense towards Hardy, and Hardy is not thinking about the broader cause of the war as he shoots this man. However, Hardy still says “of course” he was his foe, which portrays him as blindly following the requests of his superior officers. His repetition of the word “because” shows that he is uncertain about the true meaning of his actions but is trying to convince himself that he is doing the right thing. In All Quiet on the Western Front, Paul contemplates these very same issues. In Chapter 9, after the troops are inspected by the Kaiser, he and his comrades discuss who the war benefits.

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They determine that it does not really mean anything to them and that it is only truly helpful to those above them, such as the emperor and generals who desire glory and industrial leaders who would make money. They suggest that the leaders of each country should go into an arena and fight each other personally rather than sending their citizens to fight each other and die. Paul also questions the value of the authorities above him in the army, and he says that from the beginning, Corporal Himmelstoss had sensed “a quiet defiance” among Paul and his friends. Himmelstoss is a symbol of harsh wartime authority, since he is portrayed as rude and belligerent but generally unhelpful.

Both “The Man He Killed” and All Quiet explore the ideas that war revolves around following instructions rather than actually caring about what they are doing.

In this poem, Hardy says that the man he killed during wartime could have been his friend under different circumstances. He says they could have met at an inn and could have drunk “many a nipperkin” together. He also suspects that this soldier only joined the war because he was out of work, which Hardy reveals is the same reason why he enlisted. Not only does this reinforce the idea that the soldiers care little about the true meaning of the war, but it shows that the soldiers on either side are very similar people. This idea is explored in All Quiet as well, especially when Paul visits the prison camp in Chapter 8 and meets the Russian prisoners there. He realizes that even though they are supposed to be the enemy, they are regular people like him and likely joined out of desperation. Paul is also dismayed when he kills a man during battle, as he realizes that this man is a real person with a family and a life outside of the war. Paul tries to learn about the man and becomes determined to write a letter to the man’s family. He even says, “I must become a printer,” trying to find a way to make amends for this man’s death.

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The World War I poet Isaac Rosenberg also alludes to the connectedness of the two sides of the war, asking a rat in the trenches what it is like to have touched his hand after running from the other side of the trenches, where he would have touched the hand of a German. This shows how soldiers on both sides of the war struggled with these same questions about their relationships to each other.

“The Man He Killed” also focuses on the terrible and deadly nature of war. Hardy uses verbal irony when he says, “Yes; quaint and curious war is!” He does not actually view the war as quaint, but as horrific and cruel. His repetition of the idea of spending time at a bar with this soldier and his decision to refer to the man as “a fellow” portrays him as a friend, rather than an enemy. However, he says that war drives them to kill each other nonetheless. This calls to mind Paul’s repeated assertion in All Quiet that war turns men into animals, forced to act on instinct and perform unspeakable deeds. It also recalls Wilfred Owen’s poem “Dulce et Decorum Est,” in which Owen describes the death of a man and uses gruesome visual imagery to show that war is not a glorious or honorable thing, despite how it is often portrayed by leaders as a beautiful sacrifice for one’s country. Much of World War I’s poetry and literature focuses on the ideas of disillusionment from the notions of patriotism and the honor of war, but Hardy had already explored these themes many years earlier.

World War I was a time of great destruction and violence, killing much of a generation’s young men and leaving much of the rest traumatized by what they had experienced. “The Man He Killed,” All Quiet on the Western Front, and various poems reveal the firsthand perspectives of soldiers. They tell how they were affected by having to answer to authority for something they did not truly care about and by having to kill so many other people that could have been their friends if the war had not occurred.

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In the Face of Adversity as an Asian American: "Meaning" as a Double-Edged Sword Danica Fielding Before last year, I had found myself in alignment with the common sentiment that adversity fostered strength, or that one should at least derive some lesson out of it. This, of course, is true to an extent. Students of adversity often speak about finding their “silver lining,” discovering their truth or passion, and having increased their capacity for empathy, and above all, for fortitude and endurance. I have always greatly admired people who were able to do so.

Consequently, I too thought that I had an obligation to find the “silver lining” and truth in my own struggles.

I have come to see, however, that this view of adversity as a kind of “necessary misfortune” is and only can be what one makes of it. This initially seemed apparent and selfexplanatory, yet I had still managed to overlook the implications of such a realization: struggles are not necessarily foreordained as a means of personal development or to be seen as indirectly beneficial, but I had rather seen them as such because I had made them out to be as such. I was not “finding meaning” through adversity, but creating (or rather, forging) my own meaning. I had not found my “truth” or “passion” in adversity, but it had given me a subjective experience from which I could draw my own conclusions with more clarity.

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This perspective became especially clear to me in light of recent anti-violence rallies that have emerged to combat racism against Asian and Pacific Islander Americans. My mother, a first generation Filipino-Chinese woman, emigrated to the United States from Batangas three decades ago. One night, I overheard her murmur in low and anxious tones to my father. She had been watching the news on the small TV that overlooked my parents’ bed. The media constantly reminded her of the rise of raciallymotivated violence committed against people who looked like her. “Do they hate me?” she implored. My head began to spin. I did not hear his response.

Her words made my chest feel heavy; their suggestion made me bubble over in quiet anxiety and anger. How could anyone hate my mother for the country in which she was born? How could anyone hate her for a virus that she did not cause?

There was no silver-lining that I could find, no gleaming hopefulness that others so often preached about here.

There was nothing meaningful and truthful; I saw no room for feigned optimism in regard to the hatred that many people of color in America endure. It seemed inappropriate for me to look for something that was not there. It was in this moment that I realized that I did not have an obligation to view her adversity any differently, as I had been taught.

And even still, a more personal question ate away at me: should I, a white-passing teenage girl who has only ever lived in proximity to my whiteness, call this adversity mine 41

or claim to share the struggles of an Asian American? I am not my mother. I did not grow up or live in the Philippines, and I did not come to speak her native tongue as well as she would have liked me to. I did not look like my cousins who lived in her country, who spoke to me in flawless English to accommodate for my lack of fluency in a language that I had grown up hearing. I have fleeting childhood memories of the mornings during which my mother sat beside me at our wooden kitchen table, yellow scratchpad and ballpoint pen in hand. “Don’t you want to learn my language?” she would ask. She wrote out lists of vocabulary words, but as my interest faltered, so did her efforts.

She did what she could.

Through my reflection on these experiences, my perspective on adversity has been drastically altered in a way that has been much more than an elusive or philosophical abstraction. Moreover, I have come to understand that not only do my struggles not necessitate or imply the existence of preordained meaning; detaching from framing adversity positively has allowed me to focus on incorporating my experiences into an identity that is just as valid as any other. I try not to “box myself in” anymore. I now draw the box.

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A Quarantine Summer Peyton Kalan The sun hits my face as my eyes slowly flutter open, stinging my pupils with its midday glow. I had no idea what time it was, no idea what day it was, and what this recognized day would hold. I had been here before, and I am sure I would be back here again. My body felt weak, my mind felt clouded, and my heart felt lonely. I reached for my phone, 11:25 AM. Only 10 more hours until I would be back here, safe and sound. I lay there and think about how I used to wake up at 5:25 for lacrosse and have already done a practice and half of school by that time. Times were different, and I'm not sure if I could do that now. I miss the days where I had a set schedule. I had no idea what I would do today. I had no motivation to do anything. I lay there a little longer, waiting for something that's not coming. I finally decide to get up and I stand there for a moment, feeling weak. I take a look outside, it is beautiful, but I am scared of the world in a way. It feels untouchable and distant. I felt an urge to just fall back into bed. I pick up my phone. I look through social media, and I see posts about the suffering of people who have lost family to Covid or are struggling with mental health in quarantine. I also see people dancing, having fun, and being positive regardless of the circumstances. I felt a rush of gratitude. I felt selfish. I was about to waste this day just like the past 75 days I had wasted before. I change out of my pajamas, brush my teeth, put my hair into a ponytail, go downstairs, and step out into the sunlight. Ready to take on the day God has blessed me with.

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Complications Due to Covid Elizabeth Cheney The media has continually highlighted the negative health effects of Covid, and shined light on the fear of getting sick.

As of April 15, there have been 139,403,270 cases, almost 3 million deaths, and multiple variants of the virus forming.

However, there is another negative side effect to this virus, and that is the social toll it is having on people, especially students. This past year has brought many hardships and heartache for so many people. This year because students lack much of the personal interaction and socialization we are used to, Covid is making the stress and struggles of school more evident. For a full year and a half of school, students have shifted to an online, or hybrid learning environment, having limited friend and peer interaction, and faced the difficulties of learning with technical challenges to include muffled teachers' voices. Students have had to maintain friendships online, and develop study groups, and find new ways to learn, and meet new friends on Zoom. Students have missed out on many of the key memories that make up the high school experience; in person learning, school dances, gathering and cheering at sports events, and seniors missing many of the year end social events ending with a formal graduation. As we struggle to make the best of the opportunities we have, we learn through the hardships and misfortunes. As a student body, we have learned more about patience and commitment. We have learned to laugh through the muffled audio that sometimes comes from your teachers’ voices, we have learned that Zoom can be a fun platform for social gatherings, and open us to new experiences like a theater performance. The understanding and compassion everyone has learned through this experience, and the leadership and 44

new techniques that have arisen have changed the way we learn in school and participate in the world forever.

While Covid has presented us with many complications, it has also taught us to evolve in our everyday life, to push the technological boundaries, with everyone learning how to make friends online, and talk to people through apps like snapchat or facetime, and to develop new friendships with people we may never have met before, but now have met on social apps. It is expanding the ways to learn and meet people by opening up new opportunities. Once the limitations imposed by Covid have passed, hopefully we find that we have grown not only as students but in how we learn and interact with others. Life will get back to a new normal where we can all interact together in person, and have all of the fun experiences we have missed over the last year and a half. But, until then, and when it comes, let's hope we continue to turn the complications of Covid into a positive experience for growth and learning.

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What You Can Learn From Airports Miriella Jiffar “Caution! The moving walkway is ending,” an automated female voice constantly repeated the warning over the Reagan National Airport loudspeakers. As a child, the moving walkway had a unique appeal. I never did seem to hear the repetitive deterrent. When it was not crowded with airport travelers, there was a perfect, uninterrupted stretch of metal and rubber before me. There was the itch to run across, to prove that I was faster than the modified conveyor belt that moved me along.

There was wind beneath my sneakers. Suddenly: “Caution! The moving walkway is ending.” I slowed down instantly, as the combination of metal and rubber disappeared under me. Concrete floor began where the walkway ended. Maybe I should have listened to the voice that first time. If I had, I would not feel so dejected that the walkway’s simple exhilaration had ended.

As a high school senior, I don’t run across airport moving walkways anymore, but the same concept of “the end” has become increasingly tangible to me in the past few weeks as high school comes to a close. Instead of feeling dejected like my childhood self was at the walkway’s end, I now can comprehend the time, work and energy of the past four years and not feel so disheartened.

In the time since I was a freshman, I have developed the urge to do and try everything I could in high school, from sports to clubs to maintaining high grades in challenging courses. The possibilities seemed infinite, just like my childhood thought of running across an empty moving walkway. Currently, I am the Editor-in-Chief of Bishop Ireton’s newspaper, The BI Word. Having been on the newspaper staff since sophomore year, I have learned how to create, edit and publish an issue each month.

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However, a virtual newspaper was a different story entirely.

From September 2020 onwards, I quickly learned that determination, communication and flexibility were vital as I took on this unfamiliar task. After working with my editors to create the first website for the previously printed newspaper, and explaining the process of writing articles to the new journalism students, The BI Word’s first online issue emerged. Operating differently than I had been due to the pandemic led me to take the time to appreciate everything I was learning and the memories I was making. As we approach our final issue in May, I don’t feel dejected in the same way my childhood self once was as the end of the walkway approached. Of course, there is a little sting when I realize it’s going to be over. But I feel nothing but gratitude for the teachers and students that have made my past three years on The BI Word staff extremely rewarding and memorable.

Speaking of gratitude, it never crossed my mind when I was a child at the moving walkway’s end: to be truly thankful for the time I spent on it, for the bright smile it gave me; to be conscious of the world around me, and my place in it. When you think about it, gratitude is not a noun. Gratitude is a verb, full of mindful action. Now, as high school comes to a close, I will not be surprised as I was once by “the end.” Rather, I will be thankful for the opportunities and experiences that molded me and brought me to this point. Instead of running on the walkway to try to prove that I can go faster than the speed it was taking me, I can confidently take steps at my own pace onto the path I forge for myself.

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The Car: A College Essay Miriella Jiffar Seatbelt? Check.

Rearview Mirror? Check.

Side View Mirrors? Check.

Foot on the brakes? Check.

I went down my mental list like clockwork. Cautiously looking around the car before changing the gear from park to drive, I turned to my Dad sitting beside me. “Ready?” I asked. With an amused smile, he nodded. I was trying to reassure myself, not him. Gripping the steering wheel as if my life depended on it, knuckles jutting out at an angle from my clenched hands, I gingerly pressed the gas pedal.

For the next half hour, I drove around the school’s parking lot, purposefully avoiding the turn onto the main road.

“Next time,” I thought. However, my deliberate strategy to evade the turn was quickly cut short as I approached it again. “Keep going straight. You’ll make a turn at the stop sign,” my Dad said. A flurry of panic rushed over me, fear bubbling inside. “Wait, what? No. I can’t do that right now!” I exclaimed. I did not plan for this. This was not how everything is supposed to go.

My Dad reassured me that it would be easy because I’d mastered the parking lot. But I really wanted to keep driving around that parking lot. It was safe. It was easy. And I was good at it.

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I looked at my rearview mirror- there was another car coming up behind me. I had no choice. Despite the panic putting my stomach in knots, I told myself to breathe and drove up to the stop sign, making my first turn onto a major road.

I had been driving in the local high school’s parking lots on and off for the past year, but never consistently because I was petrified of driving on the real road with other cars- a fact I never fully admitted to myself. Driving was my first real fear, unlike the shivers that go up my spine when I see spiders and other bugs, because it told me that I was not in control, reminding me of my own mortality each time the gear shifted to drive. I studied for the test to get my permit and passed. I studied during my driver’s education class, paying attention in the car whenever my parents drove me to school, but little did I know that once I actually got in the driver’s seat, theory would not equal reality. Every time I drove with my parents to complete my 45 hours to get my license, something new would happen. It might be the same road, but there would be other reckless drivers, or a full parking lot and I would have to maneuver into a tight spot. This frustrated me. Why couldn’t everything be the same? Why couldn’t I just go back to the empty parking lot?

For the majority of my life, I would organize, research and plan for just about anything, such as when I planned our family trip to England when I was 13. I have so many story outlines for potential novels, but I’ve never finished a single one.

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I created elaborate, specific backstories for characters I’d never use. It never got me anywhere. So, I knew that if I kept driving in the same parking lot over and over again, I’d never really put the gear in drive. I needed to let the world see me without my plans, but most importantly, I needed to see myself that way first.

Myself, unscripted.

What a liberating and novel idea.

I enjoy driving now, despite the occasional stressful moments. It is always a learning experience. It is my favorite part of the day when I drive to and from school. I find solace and comfort from the drive, realizing that the unplanned journey is more fulfilling than the destination I already have in mind.

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The Time Before Emma Rice Once, when I was ten, my grandpa came to the edge of the living room in the white shirt that smelled of fish guts and old bananas and asked if anyone wanted to go fishing with him. My grandma waited for my brother to say no, the both of them too absorbed in their Mickey Mouse puzzle to think about doing anything else. My grandpa, assuming that I would agree with them, turned to go.

I surprised him with my declaration, “Yes!” I remember him putting the fishing rods in the back seat and the squirming bee moths in the cup holder. He asked me if I was allowed to sit in the front seat because, as he put it, “I wanna talk to you.” To this day, he’s the only person who has ever said that to me.

I very seriously informed him that yes I was, as long as we didn’t drive too fast. After Vietnam, his hearing had nearly left him. He needed to read my lips to understand me.

We had company on the drive to the lake: a boat bumping along behind us and the smell of fish that had since seeped into the seats and seemed to enjoy floating through on the gentle air conditioning that could never make the car cool enough in the summer.

On the lake, I lay on the fuzzy stern of the motorboat and watched the water part before our momentum as the bubbles flowed away into eternity. My grandpa laughed at me and asked if we could speed up.

Of course I said, “Yes!” I will never be able to forget the feeling of the wind pushing my unbrushed hair away from my face as we skimmed over what seemed like the biggest waves in the world. This time I looked up towards the sun in the sky, 51

and laughed loudly at the feeling that came. Even though I knew that my hands were holding tight to the hooks on the side, it felt as if my soul was soaring.

The moment was over far too quickly, but the feeling never left as I twirled my rod in circles, too entertained by the ripples the line made on the water’s surface to wait for a fish to bite. The feeling lasted until the return home, just as fast if not more so, my grandpa’s laugh almost hidden by the sound of the motor running, and that feeling has yet to leave me now.

Four years later, my mother would tell me time and time again to not remember my grandpa “this way,” as he scrabbled weakly at the drug-laced applesauce and snapped at the nurses who came near him. She told me not to think about the places on his arms where the tubes went in and how they made bruises.

She told me instead to remember the times before the cancer: the times he would flick water at us after washing his hands and made bread from the mushiest bananas he could find at the grocery store. She said to think about how he made friends everywhere he went, not about when he could no longer speak. She didn’t want me to associate him with the harsh smell of the hospital, the canes and walkers and wheelchairs he came to rely on, and the sharp taste of disappointment as we looked at the tanned hands that could no longer hope to hold a fishing pole.

But she had no reason to worry—when I think of him, I think of the smell of old bananas and fish guts that enveloped me whenever he hugged me after fishing, or the smell of the wind on my face. I think of the smell of his aftershave that always smelled so good. I think of dirt, rocks, and pine trees. They all smell like his spirit.

In my mind, he is still walking through the woods, or pulling someone’s heavy boat to shore, or wandering through Kroger with the slightly lost look that he would 52

feign whenever he wanted to get free peanuts for his bird feeders. I see him standing at Morton’s lunch counter laughing with the woman whose cousin, or brother, or friend he knew.

Though his body is deep in the ground in Arlington now, I still feel his spirit when I walk through the woods near our house. I know that he is still floating in his boat on Raccoon Lake, and that the fish are biting everywhere. Only difference is, his brother is driving the boat now so he can feel the wind on his face too.

And so when I am asked if I can remember him from the time before, I always say, “Yes!"

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“Peaceful Morning” Allison Dunnegan

“Peachy Day” Allison Dunnegan

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“Plane’s Eye View” Allison Dunnegan

“Raindrops” Allison Dunnegan 55

“Infiltrating the Surface” Quinn Dougherty

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“Spring Flower” Allison Dunnegan

“Paws in the Sand” Allison Dunnegan 57

“Love at First Bark” Allison Dunnegan

“Above the Suburbs” Allison Dunnegan 58

Fugitives Charlotte Benson Screams of horror and panic echoed through the air. Heavy rain beat down on the girl, luckily masking her scent from the attackers. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she desperately swatted branches away from her path. Her bare feet were throbbing with pain as she trampled over roots, sticks, and moss. Her legs were shaking, but she managed to keep them working. She wouldn’t stop. Not now. Not ever.

“Accalia, you need to run,” Axel told her in a stern voice. His eyes were hard, yet so full of anxiety. He took her hands in his.

His were bloody, but neither one of them cared. It was the least of their worries.

“W-what?” she managed, her body trembling in fear. She hated feeling like a little pup again, but it was uncontrollable. The last time she had felt so paranoid was when her parents were killed right in front of her.

“Run as far away from here as possible,” he said, gripping her hands tighter.

“Axel, no!” she protested. “I’m not going to leave you!”

Axel managed a small smile, tears growing in both of their eyes.

“You have to, Accalia.”

Before Accalia could say another word, two of the many invaders burst into their hiding place.

Axel looked at her with pain in his eyes. “I love you,” he said in a warm tone. He planted a light kiss on her lips, then turned to the men, a deep growl rising in his throat.

“RUN!” he bellowed, pushing her away, before turning into a large grey wolf, claws extended, lunging at the charging intruders, now wolves themselves.

Accalia turned and ran, sobbing.

The last image she saw was her best friend giving his life to save her own.

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More tears trickled down her face the more she thought about him.

He kissed her...something he had never done before. ...Now he’s gone.

The smell of blood and heavy rain clouded her nose. It felt as though her senses were dissipating, one by one. Her body couldn't possibly get in a worse condition.

Strands of her raven black hair were stuck across her face, slowly creeping their way into her eyes. Her clothes were tattered and ripped.

Accalia tried to summon the strength to transform into her wolf, but it was simply impossible. She couldn't focus.

More cries and screams rang in her ears, making her unable to tell how far away she was; but she didn’t stop to check.

Axel, she thought miserably. She lost everything. Her pack, her best friend, her territory. It was all bound to be gone by now...stolen in a single night.

Suddenly, something caught Accalia’s foot, sending a sharp pain up her leg. Her body gave in and collapsed into the ground.

Her surroundings began to fade away, until even the sound of the rain disappeared, and all that remained was the earthy smell of the forest as she sank into the welcoming darkness.

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Room 622 Emma Rice “Death is not the greatest of all evils; it is worse to want to die, and not be able to.” ~Sophocles

The lobby was practically empty, aside from myself and the bellhop. This would normally be unusual, but not for Halloween. The Erebus Hotel had been visited by ghosts that had yet to leave, and so only the bravest of thrill -seekers would stay that night.

It used to be terrifying to me as well, but with enough time you just learn to brush off things like a headless ghost casually staggering by. The issues only came once Harky the Headless started knocking things over.

Then I’d have to start cleaning.

I hoped that he wouldn’t get bored tonight, but people were a lot less inclined to come for a Halloween stay on a Wednesday night. Thankfully, I made sure to bring my heavy-duty latex gloves today. They were technically for forensic work, gifted to me by my policeman friend, but Harky’s messes were worth the cost.

“How many people do you think will stay tonight?”

Tom, the bellhop, asked me. He was the only person who’d been here longer than me. If I’d seen a lot, he was on a whole new level. He had practically been born here.

“I haven’t gotten any reservations yet. Maybe three?” I guessed. Unlikely, as we were approaching late afternoon.

He nodded, the lights reflecting off his bald head.

He said that he lost his hair from prolonged exposure to departed spirits. I said that he was full of horse manure, but I still checked my pink-and-black streaks every night when I got home. Just in case.

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I sighed and settled my chin in the palm of my hand, opening up a game of Solitaire on the computer. There was nothing else to do.

Just then, the elevators dinged open. Tom snapped to attention. I grumbled a bit solely out of spite as I straightened up.

Out of the elevator stepped a man in a crisp-pressed black suit, his hair slicked back with too much gel. I felt his gaze flicker from Tom’s rumpled pinstripe suit to my staticky Talking Heads shirt. He smiled, big and toothpaste white, at us.

This was not the kind of visitor we usually got.

He strode across the room and whacked the counter with his hand. I flinched, then tried to hide it from Tom, who merely looked thoughtful. When he removed his hand, a business card was sitting on the wooden surface.

“The name’s Orwell Fewiss. I’m a reporter for the Washington Times and I’d like a room and all of your customary benefits.”

I kept staring at him. Why would a reporter come all the way from the other side of the country for our hotel?

He coughed. I realized that my staring had gotten pretty awkward.

“Uh… yeah. The standard, then.” I clicked out of Solitaire and found my tab for reservations.

“What other packages do you have?”

“The deluxe comes with bagpipes to serenade you at night.” I said.

He did a double take. “Excuse me?”

“No. There’s only one package. You get a room, get scared, and get out in the morning.” If you were lucky.

“Questions?”

He looked a little taken aback. I had a feeling that no one had talked to him in his expensive suit like that before.

“No… thanks.”

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“Sure thing. You’ll be in room 315.” I pulled a key from one of the hooks inside the counter and handed it to him.

That was something the owner had insisted on— huge, old -fashioned metal keys. I dropped the key on the top of the counter. He looked down his nose at it.

“But I don’t want room 315.”

I sighed. Here came the superstitions. “Then which room would you prefer?”

“Room 622.”

I nearly choked on my own spit. “What?” No one has ever survived a night in room 622 on any night of the year. People have been strangled, mangled, stabbed, drowned, and met all sorts of other gruesome deaths in that room. Police come in, they find no evidence, and I don’t go anywhere near that room. Simple.

“Room 622,” he said with complete confidence.

“You sure?”

“I am.”

“Don’t you know anything about that room?”

There was the toothpaste-commercial smile again. I was finding it very aggravating. “Of course I do. What kind of visitor would I be here, otherwise?”

He came all the way across the country to die? I stared at him for another few moments before I decided that it wasn’t my business. “All right, then. Here’s your key.” I dropped the new one on the counter. It was almost rusty with disuse.

His hand closed around it. “Thank you, miss.”

I grunted in response. He turned around, picked up a guitar case, which I had missed before, and started back into the elevator. He hesitated, one foot in. “Do I pay now, or…?”

“At the end,” I corrected, though I knew that he wouldn’t be alive then. It just seemed kind of a jerk move to make someone pay for their own death.

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He nodded once and vanished into the elevator, doors shutting with a ding behind him. I let my breath out slowly and collapsed back into my chair, glancing back over at Tom’s normal spot.

My heart skipped a beat as I realized that Tom had been replaced by a being clearly not of this world. The figure was dressed in a misty shroud that hid its empty eye sockets. A scythe arched above his head as his back bent under his enormous wings the color of fluttering snow. His skeletal hands reached out and cradled the air as if he was the one causing it to lift the fabric away from his shoulders.

I tried to pretend that he hadn’t surprised me.

“Don’t you think it’s a little early?”

Thanatos merely tilted his scythe. I sighed. “I’m just saying, you’re always complaining about not having enough vacation hours but if you didn’t keep coming so early, you wouldn’t have to wear the cloak for as long.”

There was a short flash, and Tom flickered back into view. “I wouldn’t call it complaining, Perse. Just pointing out the obvious, my dear. Do you know if your husband is ready for another resident?”

I shrugged, tipping my seat backwards. “We haven’t talked recently.”

“Well, he misses you. The Council has been miserable with him being in such a bad mood.”

I wave d him off as I dropped the front legs of my seat down again. “If he’s too busy to send me an email every once in a while, he can wait another month.”

“Your mother confiscated his WiFi router.”

“Oh, she did?” Now I felt bad. “Well, let him know I miss him too.”

Tom flickered away and returned as Thanatos. “I’ll tell him now. You’ll be okay with this maniac upstairs?”

I winked at Harky, who was standing behind the potted Venus flytrap. “Harky and I have it covered.”

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“Ah, well then, I will see you later. If I don’t send Kerry up.”

His words didn’t register until he started flickering.

“No!” I yelled after him. “Not her! I don’t want to clean up all that blood again!”

Instead of a response, I got a crash from across the room and a remorseless ghost. I scowled at his severed neck as the dirt gathered itself up into a pile on top of the shelf and the plant burrowed deep into the mound.

“It’s going to be that kind of night, eh, Harky?”

Harky seemed to agree. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the business card still on the counter. I had picked it up to throw it away when I realized that it was really one business card with two pieces of printer paper taped to it.

Being the curious gal that I am, I carefully peeled off the paper that said “Washington Times” to see the other business card.

On one side, there was a symbol for a band called the Sons of Muses. On the other side, “STRINGS/ VOCALS” was written underneath his name, Orwell Fewiss. Below was his contact information. Well, that would explain the guitar he had.

“Why would a musician pretend to be a reporter and come here to die?” I asked Harky. Harky, as he lacked both a head and a mouth, did not answer. “I don’t know if this is one we should kill.”

Harky threw a bit of pottery at me. I scowled. “You knock that off. I can’t do anything!”

I dodged another flying piece of pottery. “Harky!

Fine, I’ll call my husband.”

His eloquent response was to vanish. Inconsiderate ghost.

I lifted the ancient telephone from its cradle and dialed. He answered halfway through the second ring, sounding excited. “Persey?”

“Hi, Hades. Something weird just happened.”

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The Tale of the Black Eyed Squids Jack Nagtzaam It has been five long months since I have seen Tortuga. We were paid a handsome stack of gold coins to find and raid a ship far-off from where we normally operate our living.

An additional stack of gold coins was promised if we could capture the enemy successfully and return them to the family who paid us. We, the Black-Eyed Squids, are the best all-around at our profession. Our countless raids upon ships have stood the test of time with success. This day on the job would be like every other day on the job. As the private on our ship spotted our target in the distance, we all ran to assume our positions. We neared closer and closer to the once distant ship until we were ready to board. As we were ready to board, however, the ship we were paid to raid and wreak havoc upon started firing cannon balls into our ship. Our ship was by no means the strongest or most intimidating ship to be reckoned with. It started sinking after the first blow to the lower deck. While we dropped planks onto their ship, several crew members started to attack other crew members near them, executing several in the process. My once former comrades were committing a mutinous act which I would not stand for. I drew my sword from its scabbard and ran at my former comrades. I slashed my sword at their legs. With their impaired legs they could no longer fight on two feet. I was indecisive with what I should do with my backstabbing crew members, but I figured letting them drown on this ship would 66

be the most fitting punishment. I untied a heavy rope on a cleat attached to the side of the ship and proceeded to bind them to the ship's mast. I asked the one who attacked our crew members first as to why he committed such a mutinous act and he said, “the other three members and I who turned our backs on the crew held a grudge against the captain. As privates we get paid little to nothing. One of us once suggested a raise to the captain and he was thrown overboard by our crew members upon the captain’s response to his request. You all even supported the captain and said privates should keep their share of plunder even though we work just as hard as the rest of you, if not harder. When this chaos broke out, we knew now would be our most optimal opportunity to revolt against the crew.” The man seemed like he had more to say but was shot by crossfire upon attempting to finish his explanation. I quickly ran onto the ship that we were boarding because our ship had almost completely sunk, and I knew that we were fighting in shark infested waters. The battle was bloody. Black Eyed Squids were falling left and right. It was too hard to tell who held the advantage. I ran to the aid of one of my comrades who was cornered by the enemy. I slashed open one of the enemy’s backs who had trapped my crew member.

His guts spilled out of his back like pasta being poured from a pot. I then set myself in a defensive position alongside my crew member at bay. The crewmember next to me by the name of SilverTongue started to advance the remaining enemy who cornered him while I stayed at his side.

Suddenly the ship started violently rocking. Everyone on

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deck fell to the ground and slid back and forth across the floor as the ship swayed back and forth. I managed to catch one of the ship's railings as it rocked side to side. I peered over to see what caused the abrupt havoc with such calm waves nearly moments ago. I noticed the ocean below the ship was stained with blood and people were fighting for their lives as sharks ruthlessly grabbed them and tore them to pieces. Moments later the violent rocking stopped. My crew was quick to their feet, but our enemy was not quick to their feet and vomited aboard and overboard the ship.

The vomit along with all of the blood, dead bodies, guts, and severed limbs made for a very unappealing smell.

With our enemy weak, we untied our ropes and tied our enemies to the mast. Our captain said, “great job men! We showed these scoundrels who are the kings of the ocean!

Now assume your position! We will be even richer in a fortnight!” I ran to the mast. I climbed the mast, untied the sail, and then clung to the mast. The ship’s sail quickly caught wind. I couldn't help but smile as we sailed towards the sunset and a heavy wind blew in my face. My crew members below shouted and yelled as we took speed. I knew that this would be one heck of a story to tell.

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Thank You, Br. Rick

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Monuments Aidan Foley Standing tall and mighty in the long green field stands a monument.

It looks over the trees and into the future. It attracts an audience.

When they come to look up at it.

Its sight is a tradition.

Parents come with their children who will grow up to bring theirs and so on and so forth.

To learn.

To find something they didn’t know was there.

To enjoy the field.

To feed the birds that live in the trees.

But one day the monument goes away.

The traditions end.

The grass of the fields grows tall.

The trees are cut down.

The birds die.

But the monument stays alive.

The stories live on.

The pictures still remain The lessons learned will be taught to the children and their children and so on and so forth.

And people will smile more than they will cry Because monuments come and go.

But Legends Never Die.

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The Road Less Traveled by a Faithful Son Mr. Rauer The air and feeling of our youth opens a vast horizon that hosts hidden challenges we do not consider will it be fame and fortune or will it be obscurity and poverty when that nemesis of doubt raises its ugly head we turn in prayer to ask Our Blessed Lord for guidance.

Following that interior illumination our horizon will develop with our grateful thanks as we begin our life journey following the footsteps laid out by the Lord perhaps with the suffering that had accompanied Him. Oh faithful son of Saint Francis you remained true to your calling your spiritual father traveled the land preaching and teaching to all those who would hear you exercised that same task with such beautiful illustration.

In this journey following your spiritual father you did not expect that you too would suffer as he yet when that time came you accepted it with true humility it did not hurt much you said - but the pain was evident to others and when the time came He and your saintly father said it is now done.

Our dear Brother Didicus we thank you for your example on this road may we be as fortunate to bear our trials as you did each day on this mortal coil for we now ask you to pray for us still here on earth.

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Thank You Once upon a time, there lived a girl whose dear friend had gone away. One day, the girl came across a special book with the words “Open me six times” written on the cover. When she opened it, she found it told her amazing things about her friend. The first time she opened it, she read: "Thank you for your example of perseverance through so many medical trials and tribulations. Unbeknownst to you, your example helped me through chemotherapy and radiation treatments. – Br. Brian” The second time she opened it, she read: “Thank you for shining the light of Christ to those you encountered. It was as much an honor for me to give you the Sacraments as it was for you to receive them. – Fr. Christopher” The third time: “I may not have enjoyed every second of your class, but I know an excellent teacher when I see one. You are missed. – Rachel” The fourth time: “I probably wasn’t your best student, but the hours I spent in your class were thoroughly enjoyable. I learned invaluable lessons that I find myself repeating (in your words) to my children. – Margaret” The fifth time: “Your greatest lesson to me was not delivered in a lecture. Every morning, you prayed for us, the students, at Mass. Every day, you walked the halls in your habit. From you, I learned to live Jesus. Thank you and well done, good and faithful servant. – Fr. Stephen”

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The sixth time the girl opened the book, she found a blank page, so she began to write: “Thank you for being a colleague, a mentor, and, most of all, a dear friend. Thank you for thinking I was worth hiring. Thank you for talking with me about fairy tales, monsters, James Dickey, gargoyles, CUA. Thank you for listening to me, helping me, praying for me. Thank you for showing me how to live Jesus, advance always, be who I am and be that well so that I bring honor to the God who made me. Thank you for showing me what it means to be a suffering servant, one who suffers well and never gives up.”

By this time, she was running out of space on the page, but she managed to squeeze in the last and most important words: “We miss and love you, dear friend. Hopefully, we will see you one day in Heaven. Until then, pray for us. - Rebecca” Thank you, Br. Rick, for all you gave us. – The Vaccaro Family

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From Mrs. Battle The monk in denim Is now watching over us While writing his poems

From Dr. Murphy Dear Brother Rick, I knew I’d landed in a good place when I found myself pledging allegiance to our nation in a tiny utility closet-turned-office, both of us scrambling to stand, bowed clumsily beneath rows of tattered boxes and before a vanguard of unimpressed gargoyles, together pitched in our duress toward a wrinkled, miniature American flag you’d suddenly procured from your robe and held aloft (with appropriate solemnity) to mark the occasion at hand. A less-than-aptly “hidden” Jimi Hendrix looked on, surely bemused by this ambling scene, a new joker and thief of his fashion. Having made this oath, the two figures settled back into the morning’s proper business: bluster, conjecture, shenanigans.

The a.m. shift in the WWS has been a quieter affair these days – I really miss you, my friend.

With love, Dan

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Kingbird Max Roland Ekstrom Before the first crocus you die--

gone to bed in my best sweater.

I had hoped to travel south in fairer days,

Tomorrow is Sunday when the nesting crows

propose a toast, join hands

grow bold-where from their knotted

and talk of poetry, if we had the time.

talon alight the first buds

Noons march over my hill

as if tears of relief shed within

as robins nest in the disused chimney--

a dream.

But spring did come

a blue note sticking in the throat of the house.

for you-your kingbird returned

I’ve played all the records, worn their grooves,

and the hellebores bloomed a last time.

This poem was written by New England poet Max Roland Ekstrom, who was inspired by the life and works of Br. Rick after hearing about him from Ms. Steg. Ekstrom holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College, and is the recipient of the 2004 Emerson Graduate Award in Poetry from Emerson College, judged

by Christina Pugh. His poetry appears in journals such as The Hollins Critic, Illuminations, The Lyric, and is anthologized in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall. He lives in Vermont with his wife and three children.

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In Memoriam Brother Rick Dear Bro, That time of year thou mayst in me behold (how often you and I joked about the increasing aptness of that Sonnet to folks of our vintage!) when my lavender plants start blooming, burgeoning blue, heaven sent, leaves and flowers heavy with soothing scent.

All hippies know that lavender, dried and hanging by your window can help to ease the pain can help you sleep.

That was my annual gift to you, that lavender, from my garden to your window in friendship and solidarity, since 2015. You always said it helped.

This spring, of course, you won’t need the help to ease.

The pain, of course, is mine, missing you, missing our regular exchange of gifts: yours to me – by far the greater! a gift of intellect, shared love of the joy of the literary hunt (Yes! you, like me, found life and truth in the works of Walker Percy and John Gardner), shared solace in great poetry (how grand it was to read John Donne with you, even – perhaps mainly – “Hymn to God my God, in my Sickness”); a gift of humor, our shared membership in the Old Curmudgeon’s Club (motto: everything was better in Our Day, especially the music); a gift of grace, back before COVID when we could share a sign of Peace during morning Mass in the chapel and your smile, then, suggesting that you knew something, really knew something, about that Peace helping me, so often, confirm what I also know, that we truly are One Body, 76

in Christ, with a capital B. And that our bodies, with a small b, are only the opening act of something so much more glorious.

I’ll cut and dry some lavender for you this spring anyway, though you surely need no gift from me.

I’ll hang it by my open window, looking out upon my statue of St. Francis of Assisi in the garden.

Peace, Brother Cathy Steg

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Acknowledgements Thank you to our submitters, whose beautiful work serves as a reminder of the creativity and fresh perspective that high-schoolers offer to the world.

Thank you to our editors, whose enthusiasm, flexibility, and diligence helped to perfect this issue.

Thank you to McCabe’s Printing Group for printing this gorgeous issue.

Thank you to the Bishop Ireton administration. Your continued support of Cambridge Road is vital to fostering creativity within our school community.

Finally, thank you to Ms. Steg, who was a guiding light throughout the development of this issue. We truly appreciate and value the wisdom and insight you have given us. Cambridge Road could have never asked for a better faculty advisor!

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Editorial Staff Editor-in-Chief: Miriella Jiffar Faculty Advisor: Ms. Steg

Content Editors Samantha Lee ‘21 Grace Constantian ‘21 Janet Le ‘21 Emma Rice ‘22 Isabella Smith ‘22 Sarah Flemming ‘22 Aidan McNerney ‘23 Bridget Barker ‘24 Patrick Carpenter ‘24

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