Flight 2018

Flight 2018

Brentwood Academy’s Literary Magazine Vol. XXXIV

Flight 2018 Brentwood Academy’s Literary Magazine Vol. XXXIV

Brentwood Academy is a co-educational, independent, college preparatory school, dedicated to nurturing and challenging each whole person—body, mind, and spirit—to the glory of God. www.brentwoodacademy.com

Flight is printed by TOOF / American Digital Company.

The Flight staff would like to thank Mr. David McQuiddy III ‘78 and his staff for their assistance with this magazine.

Flight magazine would not be complete without Ms. Lindsay Fowlkes ‘86 for her fine eye for detail and layout, Mrs. Susan Shafer for her thoughtful recommendations, Mrs. Debbie Dunn for her dedication and photography, and Mrs. Lea Ann Renner for her technological support. Finally, we wish to thank Mr. Curt Masters for his unwavering support of the magazine.

Flight Vol. XXXIV is dedicated to the students across our nation who have experienced the horror of violence in their places of learning and have responded with courage and resilience. May we never be resigned.

Dirge Without Music I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.

Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.

A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love— They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.

More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Flight Literary Staff 2017-18 Senior Editor...............Sarah Bryant ‘18 Junior Editor.............Coco Holliday ‘19 Advisor.............Mrs. Cameron Phillips Maria Arnold ‘18 Morgan Bussard ‘18 Lauren Clark ‘18 Sarah Ann Johnson ‘18 Anna Jones ‘18 Olivia Lentchner ‘18 Morgan Louderback ‘18 Gracie Marks ‘18 Isabelle Moser ‘18

Lauren Parker ‘18 Micah Skinner ‘18 Claire Smith ‘18 Nathan Springman ‘18 Chloe Vafiades ‘18 Anna Bryant ‘19 Izzy Chapman ‘19 Abby Danner ‘19 Jonah Franks ‘19 Livi Goodgame ‘19

Elise Jackson ‘19 Rachael John ‘19 Lauren Pickens ‘19 Kailey Proffitt ‘19 Ansley Scott ‘19 Ellie Smith ‘19 Willa Stansell ‘19 Jordan Harvey ‘20 Shannon Raab ‘20

Art Staff

Art Advisor..............Mrs. Debbie Dunn Isabelle Moser ‘18 Chloe Vafiades ‘18 Ellie Pedersen ‘18

Sarah Bryant ‘18 Coco Holliday ‘19 Jacob Bianchi ‘18

Ashley Sheriff ‘19 Abby Danner ‘19 Nicholas Dikhtyar ‘19

Artwork Isabelle Moser ‘18...................................Front Cover Abby Danner ’19…................................................…1 Samuel Robertson ’19 …...........................................4 Isabelle Moser ’18 ……..............................................6 Jacob Bianchi ’18 ……................................................8 Chloe Vafiades ’18……..............................................9 Stella Arthur ’20 ……..............................................12 Jada Thompson ’19 ….............................................13 Jacob Bianchi ’18……...............................................16 Alex Swindle ’19……...............................................17 Darryn Hammond ‘18.............................................18 Flannery Lyday ’18……..........................................20 Chloe Vafiades ’18…................................................22 Katie Ann Edgeworth ’20……................................23

Lizzy Throckmorton ’19…......................…….26 Ashley Sheriff ’19…….............................……28 Ashley Sheriff ’19……...............................…..29 Ashley Sheriff ’19 …...............................…….30 Emmaline Scott ’20.................................……..33 Coco Holliday ’19……….................................35 Nicholas Dikhtyar ’19……..........................…38 Ellie Pedersen ’18……..............................…...40 Nicholas Dikhtyar ‘19......................................42 Clayton Ladd ’18………............................…..43 Lauren Pickens ’19….......................................45 Lindsay Blair Stallings ‘19..............................46 Isabelle Moser ’18….................................……47 Ellie Pedersen ‘18.............................Back Cover

Table of Contents Poetry and Prose

Requiem, Sarah Bryant Eden, Stella Arthur Confused, Elise Jackson A Perspective of An Old Oak, Lauren Clark Overcast, Coco Holliday I am, Chloe Vafiades Courage: A Haiku Story, Livi Goodgame Sun, Willa Stansell Alive, Coco Holliday Put On Your Lenses, Livi Goodgame Silence, Anna Bryant The Barrel, Nathan Springman The Maid of Honor, Lillie Hulgan You Are the Sunrise, Sarah Bryant Mud, Coco Holliday Thin-skinned, Willa Stansell Dried Flowers, Willa Stansell The Fall and the Ascent, Izzy Chapman The Platform Is Quiet, Stella Arthur And The Truth Shall Set You Free, Sarah Bryant Ignorant, Hopeful, or Something in Between, Lauren Clark A Life Of Dying, Lily Wilson Nero Fiddled, Sarah Bryant Beauty at Every Flight, Olivia Lentchner A Kill, Micah Skinner Fragile flower, inner flame, burned meadow, Chloe Vafiades As Time Passes, Anna Skinner Ode To An Old Friend, Olivia Lentchner My Choices, Isabelle Moser Waffles, Ansley Scott An Epitaph of Burlap, Mabry Johnson The Battle No One Should Have to Fight, Tariah Lane Missing Pages, Elizabeth Locke Forgotten, Chloe Vafiades Destined to be Ash, Elizabeth Locke To a Fighter, Shannon Raab Impulses, Hannah Holleman Sonnet 1, Micah Skinner An Epitaph for the Boy Who Drowned, Caroline Merrell Deadly Desire, Sarah Ann Johnson

1 2 3 4 5 5 7 8 9 10 11 13 14 15 16 17 17 19 21 22 23 24 25 27 27 27 29 31 32 32 33 34 36 37 38 39 41 42 44 45

Requiem Strange ocean liners on a frozen sea: We are migrants through time, Denied the promise of permanence, Fumbling listlessly for fog-scattered light That laps the edges of a languid sky.

We are planets without atmospheres, Grasping at phantoms tangled up in the clouds, Choking on guilt and purpose and aching To forget the beauty of lands left behind.

Sarah Bryant ‘18

Abby Danner ’19

1

Eden A rustling sound came from the sky, the leaves above them rocking in the wind.

A breeze caressed their hair creating wisps of joy and laughter.

The moss below them made a bed where they rested with content.

A song was sung for them by the birds – a music fit for dancing.

The clouds gathered themselves into cheerful shapes adored by the imaginative eye.

Sweet flavor bloomed from soft fruit, leaving them satisfied.

A stream happily bubbled by giving a cool kiss to the air.

The sun dappled through the trees, who had reached out their branches to shelter them.

The land rolled out into the horizon, ripe and prime for discovering.

There was peace and love on the planet Earth.

Stella Arthur ‘20

2

Confused Can you cry under water? And ​if a deaf person has to go to court, is it still called a hearing?

Overlook and oversee, why don’t they actually mean the same thing?

No one even questions if Adam and Eve had belly buttons and Figuring all these little questions out has put me through quite some trouble.

Unknown are these things to me, and even more theories are perplexing, like Since sandwich meat is round, why is bread square?

Everyone keeps these kinds of thoughts subdued, but Did you even realize this spells confused?

Elise Jackson ‘19

3

A Perspective of An Old Oak Chop, here comes the axe Click, here comes the pointy pen Crunch, here comes the trash Lauren Clark ‘18

Samuel Robertson ’19

4

Overcast the Clouds adore it when we speak (they laugh at our twisted irony) they rain on our poems our letters our scribbles and scrawls the Clouds bring gray misty mornings (and pouring afternoons) they watch and listen and think and feel (they brought us a light summer rain) Coco Holliday ‘19

I am I am the seed that waits in the dark.

I am the root that holds on.

I am the stem that pushes its way into the light.

I am the bud that blooms in a drought.

I am the flower that shines in the shade.

I am the one who overcomes.

Chloe Vafiades ‘18

5

Isabelle Moser ’18

6

Courage: A Haiku Story Rough raging river old wooden boat, just one oar I cannot do it The boat creaks and rocks underneath my shaking foot I cannot do it But I must, I must promptly proceed without pause keep moving forward The river seems so vast, its powerful current seems a ceaseless storm Into shaky boat grasping the splintery oar I cannot do it Shut eyes are black skies, anticipating ruin I cannot do it You must says a voice then pushing away the dock, like it is my fear I find gentle strength pushing me like wind on cloud I found I did it.

Livi Goodgame ‘19

7

Sun Today I realized that the sun marks her territory.

Not in the crude way of dogs, Defecating on a tree.

Nor in the crude ways of men, Desecrating the landscape with our buildings and structures and deep wounds of roads.

She leaves her mark on the pages of the books by my window And in the freckles that adorn my forearms.

Her gentle kiss is in every blade of grass, Every tree’s leaves.

And when she sleeps, her marks remain.

She leaves them to remind us that she’ll be here again.

And again.

And again.

Willa Stansell ‘19

Jacob Bianchi ‘18 8

Chloe Vafiades ‘18 Alive my veins pumped venom and my heart spoke fire smoky words, obscuring breath ice melted when it looked at me. the sun gaped at my passion for burning Coco Holliday ‘19

9

Put On Your Lenses The world is blurry It’s fine with me.

I cannot see The mess we’ve made, The fires, wars, and Products of hate.

The world is blurry That’s alright, Better to keep The dark and light Fuzzy, hard to judge What’s wrong and right.

The world is blurry It’s just as well.

I can’t see the beggars, Poor pleading for help.

They are forgotten Like the books on my shelf.

The world is blurry I pay no mind To different deities Declaring they’re divine, Any one could be right, Any one could be mine.

The world is blurry I cannot tell Between the fiery sunset And the fires of Hell.

I choose not to choose And stay in my shell.

The world is blurry There is no line Between good and bad, Truth and lie.

Don’t get involved, You’ll get along fine.

Livi Goodgame ‘19

10

Silence Sometimes disruption takes the form of responsibilities.

Throughout history, people have decided that blurring boundaries ultimately makes the problem worse.

I can recall nine one-on-one conversations with him.

He called me that day and invited me to dinner that night.

It was just the two of us.

Because of my position, he said he would understand if I wanted to walk away.

I replied that I intended to stay.

The door closed.

He waved to say that he would be done shortly.

He emphasized the problems this was causing him.

I told him I would see what we could do.

He did not reply.

I didn’t move during the silence.

We simply looked at each other.

I did not ask him what he meant by bringing this up.

In an abrupt shift, he added that there was only one way to handle it.

We concluded to prevent any future direct communication.

That was the last time I spoke with President Trump.

Found poem from FBI Director James Comey’s prepared testimony before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

Anna Bryant ‘19

11

Stella Arthur ‘20

12

The Barrel Driving down the road, On my way to the barrel, Will eat some pancakes.

Nathan Springman ‘18

Jada Thompson ’19 13

The Maid of Honor Let us raise our glasses To the bride and groom.

To have and to hold From this day forward.

My best friend and her true love Together at last.

Or rather, My sworn enemy and the man she stole from my arms, Forever displaying my pain and humiliation Around their fingers.

I remember when you first met.

That beautiful moment When Cupid’s arrow was released.

That dreadful incident When the hand inside of mine reached out To shake another.

He was drowned in her eyes, inundated by her voice, And rescued by her smile.

I am merely an island, once his respite, Now receding from view.

We drink to your health.

May your days be many And your love never-ending.

Let nothing break you apart.

Like a king reclaims his kingdom, I will regain what is mine.

She will witness my grace revenge And he will experience my adoration once again.

So let us raise our glasses To the bride and groom.

To have and to hold Till death do you part.

Lillie Hulgan ‘20

14

You Are the Sunrise You are the sunrise that is not fully a sunrise, Just the tinge of pink fading into blue on the horizon, Casting a mysterious splendor about the trees Like a prelude to some coming glory Or the calm before some coming storm.

You are the note the soprano sings on stage, High and clear and pure until it caves into itself In waves as she squints into the bright lights For some cue from the undeveloped Polaroid Of blurred forms just out of reach.

You are mid-October air on the skin of those awake too early, Not cold enough for mittens but biting enough To make you clench your teeth and wonder How the trees can stand to lose their leaves Yet blaze so brightly in their suffering.

You are the stars sketched in notebook paper margins, A scribbled version of the cosmos, Smudged in a messy glory Of unrealized potential for brilliance, Carbon yearning for a spark.

But most of all you are the sunrise.

You will always be the sunrise.

Sarah Bryant ‘18

15

Mud In the eyes of the birds were rainstorms soaking me in sound Frantic waves, tossing, thrashing.

We roam in its depth, on the shores of expanding infinity Released to Nature’s reign.

Quiet pervades. eyes from the treetops, mud soaking through our shoes— hollow laughter fills my lungs with weightless gold.

Coco Holliday ‘19

Jacob Bianchi ’18

16

Thin-skinned When I flip over my arm, I am always surprised and occasionally alarmed by the vulnerability that greets me.

All my transient existence pulses contentedly yet persistently in the cobalt veins against the porcelain skin like chinks in my armor, knicks in my Achilles’ heel.

My soul aches to be thick-skinned but is once again weakened, Leaving me looking fragile and feeling breakable instead of precious.

Willa Stansell ‘19

Dried Flowers In my room are many dried flowers.

Though they are past their prime, they still lend their beauty to me and grace my presence with their dreaming heads.

Their fragrance long gone, they still stand tall As if to say, “Stand tall with us.”

Willa Stansell ‘19

Alex Swindle ’19

17

Darryn Hammond ‘18

18

The Fall and the Ascent Of the many replies he might have made, He’d told her goodbye.

He had gone too far.

He drank.

It wasn’t going to bring her back.

Everywhere he looked, There was something to remind him Of losing the one he’d loved.

He said how much he’d loved her, And how he could never love another girl.

But she was never coming back.

What else mattered?

It was three in the morning.

Not that the hour mattered.

Too tense to sleep.

Too fretful and too frustrated.

He had burst into tears.

Deep down Way, way rock-bottom, He was miserable Lost.

Jaw, lips, the whole face slackened.

The solution—simple.

A marvel, really, the ease.

He jumped, And came crashing down.

Lying there bleeding and legs broken.

And afterward the blessed ascent, Ascension to a paradise.

The finale was of great importance, A source of private joy.

It was every bit free.

Found poem from Truman Capote, “Persons Unknown” in In Cold Blood Izzy Chapman ‘19

19

Flannery Lyday ’18

20

The Platform is Quiet The platform is quiet, as it always is. It’s a hush so that she can hear the flapping of the bulletin board papers in the draft, and she is the first to arrive, the early bird, as always. The nine o’clock train will come seven minutes late, and she comes at four ‘till, so she sits on the bench in the back-right corner next to the new perfume ad and she waits for the others to show. The poster across the tracks is peeling at the edges. It’s a promotion for a chain restaurant that she tried once, convinced to go by the once-vibrant party of letters and exclamation points. She didn’t particularly like it, but she still takes in the poster every day with a certain fondness. It’s always been there.

The first fellow passenger arrives at 8:58. She’s a middle-aged woman with dyed blonde hair who wears the uniform vest from a grocery store. Her roots are showing, as they have been for a while now. She’s looked hurried and disheveled, wearing shirts and pants that don’t quite match. She uses the same battered purse from two years ago, when her hair was pristine and her clothes were freshly ironed. She’s frowning at her phone, but then she smiles, and even chuckles. That’s the first time she’s smiled on the platform in some time. Her shirt too, looks clean, and her shoes are new.

The college student with the initials GAF slogs down the stairs at 9:01. The letters are embroidered on her tattered backpack in faded navy next to varied and colorful doodles. The earbuds that are broken on the right side hang from her ears, music playing just loud enough to be a murmur through the platform. GAF stares blankly at her phone through the thin veil of hair that’s escaping from her bun. Her eyes blink closed slowly, and open at snail pace. Her limbs move with effort, not as if they were lead, but as if they were pushing through molasses. Her bracelets are mustard, and her socks are gold, but her sweater is baby blue. It’s the sweater she wears when she looks the most exhausted. She isn’t skimming through notes or knocking up homework answers, though. Her backpack sags in its emptiness, having become stretched from being full. GAF’s phone buzzes, and she replies with sleepy eyes and soft huffs of laughter. Her screensaver is a picture of a group of students smiling with mirth and laughing like carefree children. She won’t appear on the platform again for a few months.

The two entrepreneurs appear last, three minutes after GAF, with papers poking out of their briefcases. Siblings, they look nearly identical, save for the brother’s height over the sister. She has her hair undone and frizzing around her face and is holding her high-heels in her hand, and she’s quietly listing all the things they have scheduled for tomorrow and when certain documents are due.

The brother has his tie and top few buttons undone, and he’s trying to check his phone, open a folder, and listen to his sister all at once. He’s always trying to multitask, but he’s yet to master it. They have matching insignias on their jackets for a popular publishing firm, and every day they appear on the platform with more papers and books taking over their bags. They’ve been extremely harried, but they smile wide. The sister dials a number on her phone, and she softly greets her mother in her native language. Her grin grows wider when she holds her phone up to her brother’s ear and he blushes in flattery at whatever praise his mother lavished on him.

Then the train rolls in like windy rain and washes away the hush of the platform. All the familiar strangers get on and go home, but come tomorrow, she’ll arrive at four ‘till and relearn them all over again.

Stella Arthur ‘20

21

And The Truth Shall Set You Free She grips the podium with trembling hands, Alone, she braces for the fall from grace.

Each camera flash attacks with quick command To catch each measured movement of her face.

Is it courage or political seduction To willingly accept a public shame?

This slow, debasing walk of self-destruction, The tragic ending to a reckless game.

Beneath the weight of vulnerability The weary eyes make their guilty plea, That scandal stripped away is mere humanity, But broken trust is never healed for free.

Oh what a fool to think what’s past is dead— The ugly truth must always rear its head.

Sarah Bryant ‘18

Chloe Vafiades ’18

22

Ignorant, Hopeful, or Something in Between To hear the truth contrasts seeing it true, And clear truths rest at the back of the mind.

But now, past time, this ignorance I rue, The truth, what came, now no bother to find, The smoke, so dense, so known, cleared from the head, Falling, aware and slow, hitting the ground, Reality set in, happened like said, The time, the truth, at last, has come around.

Summer has gone; the cold is on its way.

Gone are the days when time was void and truth Was well ignored, was not thought of those days, What an ignorant view.

I blame my youth.

Perhaps, hope lets the truth be put aside, Childish hope, summer flowers have died.

Lauren Clark ‘18

Katie Ann Edgeworth ’20 23

A Life of Dying Quiet, smiling youth inclined to silence, He had many odd, delicate thoughts hidden away in his brain; He was always a child.

He never grew up.

He couldn’t understand people And he couldn’t make people understand him; Nothing ever turned out.

That made him lame.

Of course, something did happen, He began to doubt his own mind.

He was afraid, trembling and vexed; He always ended by saying nothing.

That began a new phase of life; He stopped inviting people into his room And presently got into the habit of locking the door.

Desire grew in his mind, Burning within, He began to play at a new game.

He did not need people anymore.

It would be that way. . .

I couldn’t sit still.

I couldn’t let her understand.

I wanted her to understand.

But I couldn’t let her.

Striving to look very substantial and important, I was terribly afraid.

I’m alone, all alone here.

There is something else, Something you don’t see at all, Something you aren’t intended to see.

That’s what it is, The quite simple reason.

You don’t get the point.

Found poem from Sherwood Anderson, “Loneliness” in Winesburg, Ohio.

Lily Wilson ‘20

24

Nero Fiddled I looked at the Roman bust, pristine under The solitary light of the museum and wondered How an empire of bloodshed and tyranny, Gladiators and executions, Could create something of such austere beauty.

And maybe the paradox was so acute because It is the very fabric of humanity.

We see it also in ourselves.

We saw it in her, at least, Statuesque dignity from rise to fall.

And when she fell it was not just her Who crashed and burned, It was the whole of her civilization— Her power, her symbolism, her being, Now reduced to the ashes of a bizarre unreality.

She left us to the Middle Ages, Standing transfixed in the rubble of our toppled illusions, Crumbled marble running through our veins, The understanding of how vastly we had misunderstood.

Sarah Bryant ‘18

25

Lizzy Throckmorton ’19

26

Beauty at Every Flight There is a hidden staircase that holds an immaculate, downward view.

Clusters of clover -- with flowers of white and purple— And glistening buttercups the color of pure sunshine Dot the lichen-patched, stone steps.

Amongst tall wheat-like projections that sway in the wind, A single dandelion is unveiled.

Its cloud-like tufts, the pedestal For wishes yet to be uttered.

A red-chested robin perches in a tree nearby.

He darts at the chance to lead down the flights Toward a vast green, Overflowing with a picnic of possibility.

This is one of many downward trails in life, And the result of seeking beauty at every flight.

Olivia Lentchner ’18

A Kill Slowly, the knife drops, And tears are yanked from my eyes.

Goodbye, dear onion.

Micah Skinner ‘18 Fragile flower, inner flame, burnt meadow Shattered glass, thorns in my feet, blood dripping.

Ignited match, the smell of gasoline, a fire in my soul.

Dead fields, broken beauty, watery eyes.

A storm inside, rain drops on petals, distant love.

Fragile flower, inner flame, burnt meadow.

Chloe Vafiades ‘18

27

Ashley Sheriff ’19

28

Ashley Sheriff ’19 As Time Passes

Day turns to night, another 24 hours pass. Those hours will never again be seen. I go about my day chasing the sun. I feel safe as the sweltering glow rises with the sun, and protected as it warms my cheeks. I’m comforted by the incandescent rays grazing my back, urging me forward.

However, as the heat fades, the chill of the cool air touches my skin, raising goosebumps across my body. I must seek shelter from the night. My shadow that had once fallen upon the pavement in striking sharpness slowly becomes less pronounced. I know what is coming; I know I’m losing time.

I watch in dread as the sun sets, slowly creeping behind the mountains. Every day it displays a myriad of colors fading into each other in a perfect grain. To some this is mesmerizing. To me, it is a warning. A warning that says night is coming. As I turn from the warning I come face-to-face with night. A small, round, circular sphere in the sky that glows white in the night. It is barely visible yet.

It waits behind the blue of the sky for the sun to take its leave before the moon can make its entrance.

Once taking its place upon the throne in the clouds, it lights up the night with a soft and luminescent brilliance. Night is not the enemy, but what night represents is an enemy I can never outrun. With each phase of the moon I lose hope. With each day I grow older and I realize that life doesn’t last forever. Time passes faster than one can comprehend. Each second is precious and must be cherished. Each day must be lived to its fullest, lest one wastes his time and lives in regret. The enemy cannot be outrun, nor can it be stopped. There are no heroes in this story, only casualties of time.

Anna Skinner ‘20

29

Ashley Sheriff ‘19

30

Ode to an Old Friend Man’s best friend is an overused clichÊ, but nothing can better describe your place in my life. Your love, loyalty, and unfailing devotion have carried me far in my endeavors to find true joy amongst a world that seems to lack such a quality. Your go-easy nature enables you to find contentment in your surroundings, and demonstrates the happiness that comes with flexibility. Cross-eyed you may be, but never have I met someone who sees the world so clearly. You seek the essentials by knowing what you need and not being afraid to ask for it. From you, I have developed a child-like sense of new wonder in the simplest aspects of life, and as you have grown older, you have taught me the importance of rest and being still. Boredom does not apply to you, for you relish in simply being in the presence of the ones you love. Everyone could learn something from the perspective of a dog.

Olivia Lentchner ’18

31

My Choices I feel like I can’t speak Can’t look at you Can’t look at him Can’t look at her

Waffles

Without feeling angry, alone,

There is no sweeter smell No more joyous a sound Than what springs from my toaster Crispy, golden and browned A rich and luscious treat With a center of fluff— For the rest of my days I shall never get enough.

From a bottle cascades A sweet, syrupy stream Which drizzles and drips And glitters and gleams And soaks through the center With artistic perfection…

Oh, how the waffle Does command my affections!

isolated.

I feel like I can’t speak I can fight and flee, assault the problem, look It in the eyes and scream my truth, holding the face of everything I despise, shaking you, hoping to forget it all…

Or, I can stay and confront, make peaceful change, look into the heart of your reasoning pressing my cheek against empathy, holding you, hoping to never let go…

Ansley Scott ‘19

I feel like I can’t speak But I know, everyday, the choice is ultimately, Mine.

Isabelle Moser ’18

32

An Epitaph of Burlap Here lies the body of Mabry Ann Johnson.

Like Burlap, She was woven together As a sackcloth of many dexterous fibers That were meshed together and intertwined By the Weaver.

Rarely coarse, but always strong.

Sometimes industrial yet often decorative.

She was made Versatile to occasionally bear a heavy burden.

Her mind and thoughts were often Like intricate, knotted thread.

Sometimes she frayed.

Yet, she was Southern, sturdy And simple.

Always a natural and organic beauty.

She was eventually On her last strand And her tattered body began To deteriorate.

For her Creator, in heaven, Awaited to welcome her Into His kingdom and to Weave her into a new and perfect creation.

Woven together: April 11, 2002 Threadbare: 20— Mabry Johnson ‘20

33

Emmaline Scott ’20

The Battle No One Should Have to Fight My archnemesis is a bully, but not your typical bully. It’s not an athletic jock that picks on geeks. Or the gossipy, blonde whose words sting more than she realizes. It’s not really one thing at all. My archnemesis comes in all types and does not discriminate on who will be its next victim. It bullies those from 1 to 100, regardless of color, background, gender, income, or beliefs.

My arch nemesis is a bit of a juggernaut, and those whom it chooses as its targets are in for a battle, a cat and mouse game. There are no winners in this game. There are those who, sadly, lose their strong battle, and those who survive it. Yet, the survivors never come out unscathed. I know because I’m a survivor with the battle wounds to show for it. My archnemesis is cancer, a mean, ugly, monster that changes lives forever.

Yeah, it’s pretty cool when I can share with others, “I beat cancer!” or “I’m 12 years cancer-free!” But, you can never truly beat my “archenemy.” I still have physical, emotional, and mental scars that can’t be erased by the 12 years without cancer. Because even when you beat it, it still looms over you. It’s always in the back of your mind worrying you about its return. I fear that my archnemesis will rear its ugly head again and I won’t be as strong as I was before, that the second time around I won’t win the battle. But, that’s only some of the mental and emotional havoc that cancer plagues me with.

There are also the physical blemishes, or ‘battle scars’ as I’ve proudly deemed them. Like the eight-inch scar that runs across my right side or, the small mark on the top left of my chest and, a small divot in front of my scalp. Each one of my scars are evidence of my feud with cancer.

Although, there are a number of things that I can blame on the cancer I survived, there are just as many blessings that I can count from this past struggle.

So, even though cancer was, is, and may always lurk in the back of my mind, it has shown me how strong I really am, and it continues to motivate me to live my life to the fullest.

Tariah Lane ‘20

34

Coco Holliday ’19

35

Missing Pages Every human is connected Through the power of words.

These words are bound in leather and printed on paper, Hidden secrets waiting to be told.

Books are passed down from generation to generation, Their stories remaining constant— While the significance conforms to each new reader.

These combinations of letters and words Create masterpieces like great works of art, influencing culture Wherever they go.

A child picks up an ordinary object, Expecting it to only aid in the passing of time.

Instead, the child’s life takes an unexpected turn.

The young is now old, and the once inconceivable is possible.

But what if they were no more?

Adventures that once influenced lives are absent.

Children no longer see far away lands and fantasies.

Adults see the world only in grey, excitement non-existent.

The skies are clouded; All creativity is sapped from the land.

The once blazing fire is gone.

Homes are bland now that they lack a book’s colorful spine.

Beautiful wooden bookcases are Thrown out, no longer needed – Their purpose long forgotten.

The people feel an empty place in each of their hearts, But it is impossible to place.

The void forever remains, for Nothing can fill the empty space—not friends, family, or material objects.

What they are lacking are pages – Pages of a story the people never had but so desperately need.

Elizabeth Locke ’20

36

Forgotten Dust, old and over grown.

Out dated and forgotten, Soon to be left in the dark Hoping to one day see the light.

Rust, ignored, and abandoned.

Stranded alone with no hope of survival.

How can one love him now?

Dusty, rusted, and used, Kicked and stomped on.

Bandaged and bruised, His scars burned deep.

He felt them in his heart.

This is for the forgotten.

Chloe Vafiades ‘18

37

Destined to be Ash The match ignites, and a spark is formed.

It bends and sways to the flow of the air around it.

It wishes and dreams To grow bigger, stronger, hotter.

And yet, the flame remains as it is.

The match starts to blacken, But the flame does not lose hope.

It eats up the wood, Desperate to escape the confines of the quickly disappearing match.

The flame dreams of being like its brothers — Stretching across the dry lands of California And flying over the flat plains of Arizona.

However it is destined To remain the small flame forever.

It is still hot to the touch, But it has lost all of its passion.

The end is near As the tail of the match approaches.

Then, the wood is gone.

The flame goes out.

Elizabeth Locke ‘20

Nicholas Dikhtyar ’19

38

To a Fighter A toast, a toast, A toast to you, For speaking for what is true.

Through times of fight, There was no flight, You thought no different, black or white.

With tensions high as the Empire State, The quarrels grew to murder.

Marching crowds spread, You could not wait, For what was happening on this important date.

Through sweat and tears you saw his face, MLK leading this race.

You kept on marching down the people-filled streets, Holding hands with the people that others saw As different than you.

You know what is true, you know what is right To spend time defending Civil Rights.

No matter the color, no matter the background Blacks and whites should be treated the same all around.

You are a soldier in this harsh battle, A battle to defeat the color shackle.

Through it all, you have pledged allegiance to the flag, While being used by the others as a punching bag.

You’ve never backed down, you never said die, As you stood next to others who have since given up their lives.

You helped this country truly become a land of the free, You showed the world the home of the brave.

So a toast to you for putting up a fight Even though your skin is white.

Shannon Raab ‘20

39

Ellie Pedersen ’18 40

Impulses A June moon was in the sky, Although in the west a storm threatened.

He had only to look steadily into her eyes to see dawning there The puzzled look he had already noticed in the eyes of the others when he looked At them.

He was lonely and had begun to think that loneliness was part of his character, Something that would always stay with him.

She was often the subject of his thoughts.

No great underlying purpose lay back of his habitual silence, He felt that she was something private and personal to himself.

The man and the woman came down the gravel path to a wooden gate.

Blushing with pleasure, she stepped forward.

Putting his arm about her waist and feeling her arms Clasped tightly about his neck The man leaned down and kissed the woman.

Heavy clouds had drifted across the face of the moon.

“For old time’s sake.”

The act was one of pure affection and cutting regret.

The hand of the girl was warm.

A strange, dizzy feeling crept over him.

Releasing the hand of the girl.

He regretted.

“What good am I here?”

He sometimes wondered if he would ever be particularly interested in anything.

He wished that he himself might become thoroughly stirred by something.

Some vague adventure that had been present in the spirit of the night As he had been perplexed and puzzled by all of the life.

“That’s how things’ll turn out.”

Hannah Holleman ’20 Found poem from Sherwood Anderson’s “The Thinker”

41

Sonnet 1 She stood on the counter one afternoon, And wax from crayons kissed the walls up high.

Then her bright eyes followed the butterfly As mama washed and sang a sublime tune.

The dishes clanked, never a silver spoon Or help to serve the homemade apple pie.

To hush her cries came mama’s lullaby She fell asleep quickly in her cocoon.

She checks for monsters under her own bed.

On cheeks made cold by tears, oh what a fool, Thirsting for warmth of mother’s heart and hand.

Some sounds are thermonuclear warheads.

Melodies haunt her mind from the lost jewel.

She hums, for silence she now cannot stand.

Micah Skinner ‘18

42

Nicholas Dikhtyar ‘19

Clayton Ladd ’18

43

An Epitaph for the Boy Who Drowned He was rather small for his age, And the softest thing imaginable, So gentle and quiet.

All twisted and out of shape, In an odd way he stood in the shadow of the wall of life.

Feeble and forgetful, Always lying on the floor thinking of things.

He found out many things, Things about ugliness and crime and lust.

His mother was killed.

Then began the hard years, It left a deep impression on his mind.

He put her altogether out of his own life.

But it sickened him in a very terrible way That left a scar on his soul.

He could not hate anything And not being able to understand, He decided to forget.

He thought his method of getting along good enough, Then something began to stir in him.

Then came the spring night, He sat in a waiting kind of silence, Very stirring to the blood.

The boy made his way along the road to the bridge.

He was a little tree without leaves, Against a strong terrible wind coming out of the darkness.

Then, he was flying.

He was ready to die.

He wanted to suffer, To be hurt somehow.

The thing began, Ran its course, And was ended in one night.

Found poem from Sherwood Anderson, “Drink” in Winesburg, Ohio Caroline Merrell ‘20

44

Deadly Desire Valentine’s day, but he’s in a hotel.

The blonde with him, to her he gave no vow.

The night’s foul end he will never foretell.

But tonight he will love, at least for now.

At home she sits alone waiting for him.

The smoke from her cigarette drifts slowly through the night like the spirit of her sin.

He’ll come to her like one of the lowly.

Little does he know that tonight will be his final chance to clutter up her life.

She hears his laugh, she cranes her neck to see.

She cocks the gun; her last day as his wife.

A puff of smoke, her misery released.

The old love of her life is now deceased.

Sarah Ann Johnson ‘18

Lauren Pickens ’19

45

Lindsay Blair Stallings ‘19

46

Isabelle Moser ’18

47

Ellie Pedersen ‘18