High Tide, Volume II

HIGH TIDE Literary & Arts Magazine Cape Fear Academy Volume ii 2018

Welcome to the second edition of High Tide literary and arts magazine.

Our theme this year is “Identity and Growth.” We selected this theme at the beginning of the year while many of our editors were writing their college essays. Little did we know that students in the Middle and Upper School would reveal their best selves through countless pieces of poetry, prose, and visual text. As the year progressed, we were awestruck by the authenticity our peers’ creations.

We invite you to read and immerse yourself in the voices and visions of Cape Fear Academy students via High Tide. We believe wholeheartedly that the creative arts are vital to whom we are as students and as individuals at Cape Fear Academy.

Working together, our High Tide staff aims to construct a magazine that fosters enthusiasm for and continued pursuit of the literary and fine arts.

Our English and Art teachers have helped us build our literary lives by encouraging self expression, by guiding our writing and artistic processes, and by awarding extra credit for those students who submit poetry, artwork, photography, and prose to the magazine. Our Writing Center too helped students revise their submissions.

Beginning in early October, our High Tide staff designed contest campaigns, adjudicated submissions, edited entries, and spread their excitement about writing, photography, and the visual arts--all of which influenced the calibre and design of the magazine. Once spring rolled around, our editors collaborated to determine which art would serve as the cover, to edit entries, and to finally layout the accepted pieces. And finally, it was time for InDesign. Two editors in particular, Evan Itzkowitz and Andrew Gramley, devoted their time and industriousness to the layout of the magazine. Through their expertise and leadership, Evan and Andrew brought High Tide to life.

“Going further” with self-expression, creativity, and cooperation is the impetus behind the process of crafting this magazine. Our mission is for High Tide to illuminate the talent, commitment, and grit of our Middle and Upper school students and to elevate students’ literary voices and artistic visions.

Cape Fear Academy

3900South College Road Wilmington, North Carolina 28412 www.capefearacademy.org

High Tide Literary and Arts Magazine Cape Fear Academy Volume II 2018

Cover Art: Mother Nature’s Fright: Caitlin Rodzik 1

High Tide

Poetry 6 7 11 11 12

Witches of the Fog: Jagger van Vliet You Paint Me in the Morning: Brooke Sanderford Where I’m From: Mollie Carter Identifying Me: Samantha Melin Monomania of the Unconscious Mind: Katie Meehl 13 Identity: Matt Kiatipis 14 Hitler’s Boy: Brooke Sanderford 16 The Day They Leave: Luke Brennan 17 What Makes You: Your Pieces: Sara Harvey 18 Intent: Alexis Mearns 19 That Is Growth: Margaret Dill 22 The Mask: Anonymous 25 Growth is Hard: Ja’Helyah Washington 26 First Love: Leo Glenn 27 Tree of Life: Erica Harris 2

28 How Much You Can Take: Stella Bloom 30 Inner Goddess: Caroline Broderick 32 Contemplating the Cold: Copper Pate 33 Let the Phoenix Fly: Emily Elizabeth Penton 36 Please Don’t Call Me By My Name: Brooke Sanderford 37 Masterpiece: Kiera Draffen 38 The Heart of Who We Are: Brooke Meine 41 What Makes Me “Me”: Chiara Kellogg 42 Where I’m From: Chase Carraway 43 Paradise Isn’t A Reality: Landon Scharf 44 Growing Up: Macy Magan 47 Longtime Farewell: Ana Sharbaugh 49 Moving On: William Dahl 50 City of Glass: Mairead Benson

Prose 4 Purple Pastel Vans: Alexa Borstad 8 The Tales of Kerson Snare: Jagger van Vliet 15 The End: Tyler Smith 20 My Mother and I: Eve Berg 21 Life Without My Father: Laurel Homer 24 My Reluctant Return to Dixie: Evan Itzkowitz 31 The Carnival: Jagger van Vliet 34 The Promise: Mairead Benson 40 Let Go of the Glass: Abigail Smith 45 From the Beginning to a New Beginning: Danny Shen 46 Redefining Beauty: Caroline Caviness 48 The Discovery of my Passion: George Austria 51 Growth Through Art: Sylvia Atwood

Art 5 Still: Maddie Porter 6 The Foolish Healer: Grace Haslam 7 Becoming Someone: Sara Paige Harvey 9 Cherry Trees: Catherine Carter 10 Lasso the Sun: Holt Robison 12 I Chased Dissonance: George Austria 14 Untitled: Zhi Zhang (Proteus) 16 Female Condition: Sylvia Atwood 17 Full Circle in the Worst Ways: George Austria 18 Vines: Helena Rojek 21 Self Portrait: Catherine Carter 22 Focus: Maddie Porter 23 Blue Window Washer: Holt Robison 27 Stand Out: Abigail Smith 29 Owl Moon: Aurelia Colvin 30 Rainbow Giraffe: Avery Bishop 36 Oy Vey: Sylvia Atwood 37 Reach: Grace Haslam 41 Of Fin and Feathers: Zhi Zhang (Proteus) 46 Untitled: Sylvia Atwood 47 Untitled: Maddie Porter 51 Untitled: Sylvia Atwood

Photography 13 19 24 25 26 28 31 32 33 39 40 42 43 44 49 50 53

Hidden Employee: Sophia Aimone Wash of Roses:: Margaret Dill Desert Night: Cooper Pate Bright Idea: Alexis Mearns White Flower: Margaret Dill Reflected: Alexis Mearns The Young Dancer: Fisher Ramsey Daisies: Margaret Dill Hot Air Balloon: Bennett Dahl Growth: Miller Dalton Antiquities: Jagger van Vliet Forward: Grace Haslam Swimming Like a Sea Lion: Audrey Dahl Growth: Miller Dalton Slowly But Slowly: Mack Webb Bubbles: Elizabeth Filbert Red Means Stop: Noel-Christian Smith 3

Purple Pastel Vans -Alexa Borstad

I was about to burn my Jordan high-tops, my sock collection, shorts, and stretched-out headbands.

Basketball, a sport I dedicated ten years of my life to, brought me to this state of mind. It was an entertainment form I watched instead of Netflix, a religion whose idols—Jordan, Kobe, Griffin, and Curry— decorated my walls.

How could it be over in less than a week? Well, here’s why—my relationship with the sport had become toxic. After four days at the Elite Basketball Camp, I realized I was done with bruises, derisive laughter, dragging myself out of bed, and being catapulted face first to the floor. I was ready to go home, slip on my pastel purple Vans, and forget about the Jordan brand.

But that night I saw Jesus. He was sitting in the lobby, disciples encircling his dirty Birkenstock-clad feet, playing an old Gibson guitar. These disciples were the demons who ignored, harassed, and tortured me with their D-1 destinies. Although Coach Rob wasn’t actually Jesus, his folksy voice somehow delivered my soul to a different realm—a carefree and peaceful place I hadn’t visited all week. It was a place where I wanted to stay, a place where I finally felt fearless and satisfied, which is why, for some reason, I surprised myself by asking to play a song.

Prior to this moment, self-deprecating thoughts would have assaulted my psyche, thoughts like: “Don’t mess up,” “Everyone’s staring,” “You aren’t that talented,” “Abort mission,” and “CODE RED.” Instead, I used the new state of mind the music constructed within me. Propelled by the music, I let go of my inhibitions.

Full of composure, I shuffled through the sea of incubuses and sat down next to Rob. Like a blessing, he bestowed his fully-acoustic, mahogany masterpiece into my hands. Different from my Fender Stratocaster, I acquainted myself with the new instrument. I assessed its abnormalities: a slightly thicker neck, a stale pinewood scent, and a fraying D string—nothing I couldn’t handle. So I took a deep breath, and began to play.

As my fingers transitioned from C major to G major, I felt warmth and serenity—like the color orange, a color that describes fall leaves, family movie nights, and jumping into puddles as a child. While I sang a melody and strummed lightly, I noticed only cordial, angelic faces. For the first time in four days, I felt less like an outcast and more like someone with a purpose.

As I finger-picked A minor, I felt the color red—a representation of today’s unbearable yet trifling stress. Why did I worry about how these people perceived me? Why did I allow their perceptions to overshadow my love for the sport?

Finally, I nailed the F major in the bridge, and captured the applause of the campers and coaches.

This camp gave me confidence to share a passion in front of others; however, it also taught me that a stamp of approval is not necessary. Stevie Ray Vaughn once said, “When I play from my mind I get in trouble.” That was the mistake I had made all along. I allowed the fear of failure and other’s perceptions to hurt my performance.

Today, I can’t imagine the world without the crisp “swish” sound of a basket or the beautiful, brown body of a Gibson guitar. Despite my lack of D-1 talent, I will still enjoy every minute of basketball. I will also pl guitar, although I’m not Jimi Hendrix. And I will wear my purple, pastel Vans everyday, along with my Jordan high-tops, for the rest of my life. Nothing will ever hold me, or my passions back again.

4

Maddie Porter

Witches of the Fog -Jagger van Vliet

A light rain pattered upon the rocky coast There seemed more foam on the crest than most Unbeknownst to the local residents The banishing of many a peaceful pelicans Was only to be one of their first warnings For many men neigh ever see morning The people cry out in anguish mourning The ocean cackles in devilish roaring It has sent out its messengers Of death in their soul A quest in their hearts the townspeople are told They are minuscule and then they’re colossal The have descended from the eerie fossil Davy Jones never leaves his eternal lair Yet even his age pales in compare No one knows where they live Not a soul can even start to give A reasonably straightforward answer Some say a god in all his anger But in reality you know Like the rising tides they ebb and flow It never ceases to amaze How easy she keeps your weary gaze.

6

Grace Haslam

You Paint Me in the Morning -Brooke Sanderford

Couldn’t quite feel much.

Fists like a paint brush, pressing colors into my skin.

My body like a canvas, in which you took advantage.

My paper was wearing thin.

Sometimes it was red.

Sometimes it was blue.

But I didn’t mind the purple, because it let me forget about you.

It reminded me of the lilacs, in the morning scape.

It reminded me of the times, I would fall asleep, and be taken away.

Sara Paige Harvey

It reminded me of the pretty hue of the morning sky.

It reminded me of the field of lilacs, where I would forget time.

Somedays I would have the field on my thighs, but no one watered these flowers, they were all left to die.

Pounded and wilted, by the rage of the winter snow.

Who am I now?

How could I know?

7

The Tales of Kerson Snare -Jagger van Vliet erson Snare’s Ulean apartment was in disarray. The smell of baked Starling rat permeated the dense air in the cluttered two-room flat. It was infused with the essence of the delicious meat with which Kerson had a slight and probably unhealthy obsession. The lights flickered slightly bathing the small living area in thick misty light. Kerson stood out on his cramped balcony, his long leather coat billowing around him. He felt a windy chill given that he had put the windblock down, and he could now feel the gusty wind carrying the scents and noises of Dexing City upwards towards him from the neon mass sixtythree floors below him. The beeping and honking drifted lazily towards to Kerson’s floor and with it bringing the strong aroma of marketplaces filled with food and delectable drink. He could even faintly hear the sounds of the largest and most populated city on Ulea, the planet of cities.

The flashing lights from below were not in the slightest bit enticing, and Kerson was not-in-the-slightestbit pleased to know that he had to do business with the scum-filled rift raft below. Reluctantly, he buttoned his jacket and casually flicked the switch, activating the wind block again.

Kerson made his way back through his reeking apartment kicking aside cans and cheap plates, not particularly caring where he stepped or what he stepped on. As he approached his door, he grabbed the small satchel that hung there, which, of course, contained his holoprojector as well as what incredibly limited money he still had.

From there, Kerson pressed his thumb up to the plate to the side of the door and exited into the equally grimy and windowless hallway. He turned back and pressed his thumb to the dirtencrusted plate on the other side and heard the familiar sound of a broken bell signifying that the door had been locked.

Kerson breathed slowly as the 8

K

elevator box rattled its way down 63 floors allowing him to catch brief glimpses of other floors on the way.

It took a few seconds for the metal door to creak open even after it had reached the ground level. As soon as the doors did open, the small cramped lobby came into full view including its single occupant, Ms. Dordrena.

Ms. Dordrena was a Masparian born Glugean with pale green skin and small squinting eyes. Dordrena was also a long-time friend of Kerson, which was undoubtedly the only reason why he was allowed to stay at her hotel despite not being able to afford the rent.

She greeted him with a grunt that only suggested she recognized him. He nodded back to show his own respect for the woman who sacrificed a whole part of her day to clean his apartment.

For the longest time, Dordrena had been wishing to buy a cleaning droid to assist her with the difficult task of maintaining all the rooms. In any case, Kerson smiled at the permanently sour Glugean and made his way to the door leading to the treacherous streets which only minutes ago he had been overlooking.

Immediately after he exited the building, Kerson was swarmed by a group of Olexian beggars. Their filthy matted clothes and long spindly arms groped at him as they chanted in tired unison, “Daewoo, daewoo.” He didn’t even glance at the language bar that flashed across his slightly scratched Tantum glasses. He had heard this phrase all too often from the Olexians.

They were begging him for money.

However, he managed to ditch the throng of hairy spider-like alien creatures relatively easily only to make his way into an even more dangerous alley.

The bottom levels of Dexing city generally were inhabited by the lowest creatures of society and at night with little to no police supervision, the streets became an obstacle course of murderers and gangs mixed in with the occasional shady arms dealer. He passed drunken Orrurds who shouted strange garbled words at him. Kerson shook his head as a mix of gibberish appeared on the language monitor of his glasses. He kept his head down as

he passed a Kaughknaught bar which was well known to be filled with a menacing crowd, and more specifically, the four-armed Kaughknamught brutes themselves. After passing another shady nightclub, he ducked down into yet another alleyway which was one of the millions of back roads in Dexing City.

He finally found it. Kerson approached a small nightclub directly below an overhanging bridge connecting two of the larger unknown buildings. The specific nightclub which Kerson sauntered up to was advertised by a flashing neon sign reading, “Je Unka.” Kerson didn’t bother trying to translate the foreign sign, and could hear faint music pulsing as he simply approached the entrance to the club.

His arms tensely folded, a Glugean bouncer, who was obviously a male, but did look uncannily like Ms. Dordrena, guarded the doorless frame which Kerson was now attempting to enter. Maybe it was just the oversized nose and sagging green skin, but the resemblance was uncanny. As soon as the bouncer caught sight of Kerson, he straightened up professionally and blocked Kerson’s path into the club.

“Do lupa re osa,” the Glugean gurgled.

Kerson rolled his eyes as, “you’re not allowed in without the password and your name,” flashed across his Tantu glasses.

“Za’rehensan ase san’yre” Kerson said, making sure to pronounce every single syllable of the statement he had been practicing to sound as professional as possible. The Glugean glared at him, waiting for his name given the fact that Kerson obviously gave him the password which Kerson had spent two rotations trying to attain. “Toto eesa units,” Kerson breathed smoothly in Weranian, the only language he spoke other than Basic.

As he said this, Kerson pressed ten value unit into the Glugean’s hand. The Glugean raised his brow for a few seconds and then somewhat reluctantly allowed Kerson to enter the bar saying in broken Basic, “Welcome man of Earth.”

Kerson was greeted inside the bustling nightclub by a short Olexian whose head only reached Kerson’s

waist. The mousy Olexian offered Kerson a cup of some electric blue liquid which bubbled slightly. Kerson nudged the Olexian slave away with an annoyed half shove. He knew better than to take a drink from a Olexian slave. Olexians harbored a deep and everlasting hatred for every species that ever enslaved them, which was the majority of the galaxy of Etrada’s inhabitants including what relatively small number of humans there still were. In any case, Kerson approached the nightclubs official bar which Kerson judged was only slightly more

trustworthy than the dust-covered Olexian.

He sat down on one of the cushy red leather stools that hovered near the bar and glanced down at the surly looking tattooed Kaughknaught bartender. He pulled his dented holoprojector out of his satchel which up until that point had simply been swinging by his side. After the holoprojector whirred to life he murmured, “earth beer,” into its small voice recognition code, and after another glance up at the barkeep who was currently serving some

Catherine Carter

unrecognizable alien he muttered, “Kaughknaughti.” The holoprojector gave a positive sounding beep and in a matter of seconds portrayed the phrase Kerson had been looking for. However, even that few seconds was enough to show that Kerson’s holoprojector was an earlier and far more outdated model. It’s picture was wavy and full of inconvenient flickers and wavering.

Even so, Kerson called out to the bartender who turned and tilted his head slightly and asked, what it was that Kerson wanted in his native and naturally harsh language. Kerson repeated the phrase his holoprojector has provided for him and hoped that he was not saying the completely wrong thing on account of its oftentimes faulty translating feature.

The Kaughknaught nodded and went about opening a small dusty box which appeared to be fairly light and extracted a large bottle filled only halfway with a murky golden liquid Kerson recognized as good old fashion Earth beer which had become uncommonly rare on both Ulea and Etrada. The bartender poured the beer into a glass with little emotion and slid the bottle down the bar into Kerson’s awaiting hand. The glass was cold, undoubtedly because of the electronic cooling mechanism which kept the glass permanently and refreshingly chilled. Kerson was just beginning to take a sip of his drink when he felt a sharp tap in his lower back. Kerson turned around and immediately looked down to find a graying Olexian staring back up at him with eight beady eyes.

Kerson waited somewhat awkwardly for the arachnid-like creature to talk to him. Instead, the two spent three strained silent moments looking at each other until Kerson, beginning to grow exasperated by the alien inquired, “Yes?” The Olexian, as if shaking itself out of a trance nodded his head and said, “He is waiting for you man of Earth.” This statement was intermittently punctuated by clicking sounds emanating from the creature’s shining pincers which chittered angrily at Kerson’s glance. Kerson nodded 9

without speaking, left a few bent units on the bar, and stood up from his stool following the Olexian through the bustling crowd onto the nightclub’s main dance floor.

The crowd swayed in unison to an electronic sounding ballad played by three Draobian men. However, the speakers from which the music emanated were nowhere to be seen; instead, the music seemed to come directly from the walls themselves. The Olexian took no notice of the dancing and excitement of the crowd, simply expecting Kerson to follow it through the maze of bodies.

The neon lights became much more slow moving as Kerson and the Olexian entered a separate room which was considerably less crowded and

12 Holt Robison

hosted a number of simply set tables.

The faint pulsing of music from the previous room was only barely audible when the Olexian stopped. The alien paused in front of a small door on the far wall and swept his arm towards the door. Kerson approached the door and pressed his thumb to the plate which must have been unlocked for the door slid open easily at its touch.

Inside the room lay nothing but a small table lit by a flickering light and clinging to the ceiling by a meager few multi-colored wires which emitted a series of sparks in sporadic intervals.

Sitting next to the table, was one of the last few Earth men in the galaxy of Etrada; Saleet el Baluch. The Middle Eastern man was dressed in at least four ripped overcoats which hung

away from his gaunt skin. His hair was knotted in dreadlocks held together by a group of faded beads. His grimy hands were held out in front of him and were intertwined as if he were praying. The effect was somewhat ruined by his unkempt fingernails and majority of rings.

Upon Kerson’s entry, Saleet looked up at him with sunken and plotting eyes. After a moment of staring, Saleet broke out into a disgusting smile. All of his teeth were yellowed except for the two sparkling golden teeth which stood out noticeably against Saleet’s cracked lips and decaying teeth.

“How are you Saleet?” Kerson asked, as he pulled out his gun, aiming it at the man’s chest with one clear thought coursing through his mind.

Where I’m From -Mollie Carter

I’m from the local volunteer fire department, from Kleenex and home-made biscuits.

I’m from bright, breezy afternoons enjoyed on the screened-in porch.

I’m from the beautiful magnolia and pecan trees.

I’m from family reunions and southern drawl, from Buck and Becky and Leroy.

I’m from an unpacked suitcase and travelling from one parent to the other.

I’m from It doesn’t cost to be kind and Bless her heart.

I’m from sunrise service on Easter and midnight service on Christmas.

I’m from small town, chicken pot pie and banana pudding.

I’m from Granddaddy walking us down to the scrub-club.

I’m from the endless supply of wafer cookies and love.

I’m from piano lessons and rides on the fire-truck.

I am from baby-boxes full of pictures that grew-up and left.

Identifying Me -Samantha Melin

Identity is what I see as a part of me, But only deep down in my heart the truth lies, When I look inside to see, I see a person who hides on all sides.

I think about what I want to be when I grow up, Will it be a lawyer, a doctor or an actor in a play, But for now I’ll put my ideas in a cup, And let them drift away.

The potential of reaching my dreams, This is where I need to be, But every time it seems, I don’t find the key to find my true identity?

11

Monomania of the Unconcious Mind -Katie Meehl

Drip, drip, drip, The ticking of the clock, It doesn’t seem to stop, Tick, tick, tick.

Tick, tick, tick, The beating of one heart, The other has no start, Boom, boom, boom.

Boom, boom, boom, The man is getting very frantic, His foot taps in an anxious panic, Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap, The man lies dead on the floor, He sees the light of day no more, Silence.

Out of the silence, rings a bell, “The police are here,” it seems to tell.

A witness? Where?

Over there!

The demon peers through the window, Seen, it does not matter, though.

The man’s fate is sealed, a crook he is now, The scene is over, might as well take a bow.

The demon peers through the window, Seen, it does not matter, though.

The man’s fate is sealed, a crook he is now, The demon peers through the window, Seen, it does not matter, though.

The man’s fate is sealed, a crook he is now, The scene is over, might as well take a bow.

Through the door, the demons shout, The demon peers through the window, Seen, it does not matter, though.

12

George Austria

The man’s fate is sealed, a crook he is now, The scene is over, might as well take a bow.

Through the door, the demons shout, The man knows there is no way out.

Drip, drip, drip.

The blood continues to drip.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock continues to tick.

Tap, tap, tap.

His feet, not restrained like his hands, continue to tap.

Silence.

He wakes up.

The walls of the prison are still the same foggy grey.

A criminal he is, A criminal he will remain.

Silence.

Identity -Matt Kiatipis

Two voices when there’s two choices, And two actions to a person’s satisfactions.

Two sides to every story, some are gory, some are glory It all depends on the territory.

Forbidden and hidden, my one identity sits, The other one everybody gets.

Why do my two identities select who they meet I guess that’s just how it works.

Identity is an interesting thing Identity is a special thing.

Embrace it and capture it like it’s a diamond ring.

When will the real identity be shown in all of us, Instead of people hiding behind a face they really aren’t.

Instead of two faces make it one, That’s when we’ll know we really won.

One face.

One voice.

One action.

Be yourself.

Sophia Aimone

13

Hitler’s Boy Golden follicles laced his arms.

A keen blue smile glassed his cheeks.

Opening and closing those frozen eyes, right under an untouched perfect crease.

Hands with cornered edges, that were smooth like a German chocolate night.

Rounded like his protruding knees, that were always there at the right time.

Without fault, He was a Prussian blue cornflower.

Its petals soon to be ripped, crushed, and pressed into the flaxen stamp of a revolution.

He was so taken by all of the movement.

His idle innocence waiting to be liberated.

-Brooke Sanderford

Zhi Zhang (Proteus))

The End -Tyler Smith

The last one. It took forever aimlessly wandering through the void, but we found it. The last star. The last one in the universe. It’s a beautiful white dwarf, the remains of a regular star. It was predicted trillions of years ago that we wouldn’t get this far. We used to think that we were destined to die on that rock we called Earth. See, we need stars to survive. They transfer energy to planets, keep them warm. The only problem is that eventually they all die, and there won’t be any new ones to replace them.

See, the universe has been rapidly expanding every since its birth eons ago. And with this, the very particles that make up the universe itself have also been spreading out, so far out that it’s impossible for them to make a new star. Long story short: this is the last star ever, and when it dies, so does the universe and us with it. It’s so bright, yet it’s smaller than a planet.

“Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“What is the status of the scan?”

“Scan 75% complete, Captain.”

In a bit we will know exactly how long this star, and the universe has left to live. I have no idea what we did to deserve to make it this far. We should have been dead long ago. Trillions of planetary conflicts, billions of system skirmishes, and over 300,000 galaxy-wide wars, you think one of them would have been enough to wipe us out.

Nevertheless, we adapted. We rose from the ashes. One could even say our species grew. Nah, that would be stupid. But we’ve reached then end now. Who knows how long we have until the last light of universe will die.

Maybe this will be the final turning point humanity needs. If we can get the sustainable energy plant up and running, maybe we won’t even need the star. Only problem is we haven’t tested it, and it needs at least 5 years to set up. If it fails, the universe dies. If it succeeds, no one quite knows how long the inevitable will have been prolonged. So, more than likely the universe dies either way and we go down with it. Maybe we could...

“Captain?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Initial long range scans were incorrect in their predictions, our new scan indicates the star only has a

few months before it turns into a black dwarf.”

“Initial scans said we had a few years left.”

“That’s correct.”

The end of the universe. A few months.

“Dismissed.”

All of this war. All of this suffering. All of this improvement. All of this hope. Just for a few more months of precious life. I down the rest of my glass. To the end of the universe.

15

The Day They Leave -Luke Brennan

Hadn’t realized it, Until it was too late.

I hadn’t had time to do it, Before the next day.

That day has come upon us.

Where they must ship out.

I forget to tell who I love the most.

That they must back out.

This day has claimed my name.

I will never be the same.

My personal responsibility Lacks in the face of my fame.

The things that fame or fortune can’t buy me Are the valuable lessons I have learned.

I yearned to get them back But that was one lesson That I had not learned.

Sylvia Atwood

16

What Makes You: Your Pieces -Sara Paige Harvey

It was like there is nothing but black around you, with nothing you could do. Overpowered by fear, it has left you in that corner alone. You couldn’t move or speak at all, only listen.

The puzzle that is left for you to fix is missing a piece— You...the one last missing piece.

You are conquered by your greatest enemy: fear.

Nothing is left of you.

Not a soul has to stand up because they’re all just sitting down.

Eagerly, you wish for help, but you are locked in the dark alone.

Not a light can shine through the cracks because the fear overpowers all.

Don’t let the darkness overtake you.

You must stand up!

You...the one last missing piece.

George Austria

Intent forever or not a life intended to be to discover me -Alexis Mearns

18

Helena Rojek

That Is Growth -Margaret Dill

People are a lot like flowers; they start out tiny and become something more beautiful and unique than ever imagined. Just like flowers, sometimes people face discouraging weather, a drought, or a flood and they begin to wilt and turn brown. Such curveballs in life cause flowers to sink low. However, hitting rock bottom is what causes them to begin to slowly grow again.

Gently flourishing towards the sun, their color comes back, and once again their bright color readies them to take on life’s next obstacle.

With people, these obstacles aren’t just a day without sun or an extra splash of water.

Sometimes life can feel like a dessert on a summer day or a never-ending tsunami.

That’s when waves crash down on us and take us away until we see nothing. And just as it seems as if there is no hope, we catch a glimpse of the shore.

We swim and we fight and we survive, and next time, we are able to look at the sea with a different perspective.

We gain courage and become resilient.

And that is growth.

Margaret Dill

19

My Mother and I -Eve Berg I don’t remember much from last night. All I remember was the thickness of the air, the sour smell, and the music being so loud your eardrums felt like bursting. I didn’t know half of the people in my house, and looking back on it now, that was really irresponsible of me. Everyone was having such a good time though. I knew in the back of my mind that what I was doing was wrong, throwing a party behind my mother’s back, but in the moment I was having such a good time, I felt like the whole house was a rocketship. Flying to extraordinary heights. So high up you felt like you would never come down.

The last thing I remember is being on top of the table dancing. Now I’m here, sitting on the floor of my kitchen, not knowing where everybody went. I probably fell or something stupid like that.

“Hello?” I called out. No answer. In the solid minute of silence after that, I came to the conclusion that everybody had left my party. I tried to orient myself. I examined the bottles scattered throughout the kitchen and the living room. “I’ll clean it up tomorrow,” I said to myself as I proceeded to get up off the floor and head upstairs.

Halfway up, I heard a faint, almost inaudible weeping sound coming from my mother’s room. I moved closer to the door, trying to look through the crack.

Why is she home? Isn’t she supposed to be at her boyfriend’s house? Why is she crying? I started to put the pieces together.

Something must’ve happened with her and her boyfriend. Then I really started to think. My mom was home which meant she saw the wreckage of the once incredible party I had thrown and kicked everyone out. I wasn’t really surprised at the fact that she didn’t check to see if I was okay. What really confused me was why she wasn’t furious with me. I watched as I saw her sitting at the edge of her bed, burying her tear-stained face into her arms and crying. It’s so weird seeing this side of her. I almost felt sorry for her.

Suddenly I couldn’t see the woman

20

who never told me she loved me, or the woman who would lock herself in her room for hours upon hours. I forgot about the bruises and the lies I told my friends who’d say, “Oh...clumsy you.” And that one time she pushed me down and I hit my head on the side of the table and it started bleeding. How was I supposed to explain that to my friends? I forgot about all the times she left me mentally scarred. Telling me I was the reason for the divorce.

Abruptly she looked at me and swiftly slammed the door in my face. The weeping turned into full-fledged sobbing.

I opened the door and walked in. Before she had a chance to say anything, I pushed the words, “I never liked Tim ” from my lips.

Her crying came to a stop. “I don’t care whether or not you liked Tim ” she mumbled through continuous sniffing. She wouldn’t look at me.

“What happened?” I quietly spoke.

She ignored me and continued to stare off into space. “Did he hurt you?” I asked. She shook her head no. “Are you ok?” those words filled the room as she still focused on her shoes. I had never asked her if she was okay before, I never really cared.

“I don’t need this from you,” she said, the words jolting off her lips into my chest.

The room felt crowded with the emotional tension between us.

“You never need anything from me.

You never even talk to me,” my voice shook.

She finally glanced up at me, I could see the fire in her eyes. “I don’t need to talk to you. You’re not my friend, you’re my child and you are supposed to do what I say, but instead you always are out partying. How am I supposed to care for a daughter who is never here?” I could see her eyes narrow.

“You’re the one who’s never here,” I argued back. “You just sit up here, in this stuffy room for God knows how long. You don’t even make me meals.”

“What else am I supposed to do? I don’t want anything to do with you!” She replied. She was still sitting on the edge of her bed, with crossed legs and her head resting in the palms of her hands. The dress she was wearing was new, or at least I had never seen her wear it. It was a long

white and black striped sundress. It made me sad knowing that my mother had that beautiful sundress in her closet. It would always remind me of this night.

When I glanced over at the digital clock on her nightstand, it read 2:34 a.m.

Time seemed to be moving at an electric rate, but to me, this moment felt frozen in time. My mother and I were finally talking.

Seeing each other eye to eye. “Why don’t you want anything to do with me? I try so hard.”

“I try hard too, Celeste. So much has happened to me. To us. It hurts me to see you going down the same road as I once did.”

That hit me like a truck. I knew my mother had been depressed; I knew the depression pills she took could never truly make her happy, but I never knew why.

We all have baggage, our own demons, but I never knew her baggage was me. This house, this emotional palace, the same house that once felt like a rocketship, had crashed back down to earth. Back down to reality.

I felt the question coming. The question that I knew the answer to, but I was too scared to ever ask because I knew my heart could not take hearing the answer. The words exploded out of my chest,“Do you love me?” My face felt hot, and my vision was contorted by the tears not streaming down my face. Two monumental things happened that night between me and my mother: We cried in front of each other, and I finally asked her if she loved me. Crying in front of my mother felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. It looked like she didn’t even hear me, like she didn’t want an answer. Maybe she didn’t even have an answer for me, perhaps she had never fully thought it through. But then again, a regular mom wouldn’t need to think through whether or not they loved their own child. I had to stop comparing Terry to a “regular” mom. I watched and felt like I could see her mind running, searching for an answer. I knew there was no definite answer. I’d overstepped that unspoken boundary between us.

“Of course I love you. You’re my child.”

It all came down to “of course.”

On the morning of the first day of school, I threw a tantrum and made myself throw up because I was so nervous and worked up about having a “man teacher.” Throughout the year, however, I began overcoming my fear because I had to face it everyday.

As I have grown older, my mind has often oversimplified my issues in effort to find a solution. Because my dad was only in my life for 10 months, I disliked the idea of knowing people for longer than that. I felt no one deserved to know me for longer than the man that gave me life. I thought that only allowing people to be in my life for 10 months would give me a sense of control. Spoiler: it did not work. Although I realize this is not a logical response, the thought always loomed in my mind. I have had to resist this urge to end relationships and fortunately, have maintained some wonderful friendships. Internally, I know that I feel this way because I would rather have had my dad for seventeen years than many of the other people I have met. (I am not trying to be rude, it is simply my reality.)

Much of the person I have developed into stems from losing my dad. To a stranger, I may seem like someone who is shy or quiet and withdrawn; I uphold this facade in order to protect myself from people seeing my vulnerability and anxiety. Growing up, I never understood much about September 11th, and I was

Catherine Carter

Life Without My Father -Laurel Homer

My perceptions of my father are purely based on photos and stories. He was taken from me on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, when United Airlines Flight #93, the flight he was co- piloting,

uncomfortable with the attention our family received because of his death, so I chose not to discuss it with anyone. In second grade, a girl found out about my situation and proceeded to bully me. I still remember her chanting, “dead dad, dead dad.” She caused me to feel ashamed and scared of people finding out. My anxiety became the monster under my bed that I could not hide from--trust me, I tried.

Through this experience I have learned a lot about myself. I

was hijacked and crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. The worst

realized that when I run into a problem, I come up with flawed

day of my life happened when I was ten months old. Although

coping mechanisms because they are the only mechanisms I

I was too young to comprehend what I had lost, I spent my

have. By closing myself off, I feel protected against suffering

childhood trying to understand a world tainted by tragedy.

anymore loss. Although my “solutions” are faulty, I am finally realizing this which is helping me finally come to terms with

The hardest part of losing my dad, aside from not having my

my issues. My internal and external conflicts showed me that

him growing up, was how it affected my mind. When my mom

although I am still carrying a lot of psychological baggage, I have

tried to explain why daddy was gone, she said that there were

already gotten through the hardest part. I have gained strength

“bad men” on the plane. She did not realize that she inadvertently

that even the most powerful person cannot achieve, and I will

caused me to fear all men. I had to begin therapy at the age of

use this strength as I face challenges in the future. That is how I

three because of this. My feelings toward men got progressively

will honor my father for giving me my life.

worse as I got older. I had my first male teacher in third grade.

21

The Mask -Anonymous

Years ago I lived my life like any other kid.

Happy, carefree, and unaware of it creeping up on me.

On a normal, regular day, it slipped on me. At first, I had no idea what it was.

All I remember is that something had upset me, but I couldn’t show it.

I wouldn’t allow myself to show it even though it hurt. When asked how I was, I said, “fine.”

When someone was around, even if I wasn’t okay, I would still smile. It began to feel like something was tightening around my face. I wasn’t able to speak about how I really was.

It wasn’t till later that I finally gave it a name: The Mask.

Soon, I could feel it taking control of my life. I felt it mold and twist my lips into a permanent smile.

I felt it mouthing the words, “I’m fine” like clockwork. For a large portion of my life, I have worn this mask from when I wake up till when I fall asleep. It feels as if it has left a searing scar on me. While I was wearing it, I started to believe that I was ok when I was not, that I was fine when I was not. I had no idea who I was anymore. I was consumed by The Mask.

A few years later, I finally was able to take off The Mask.

I had fixed what was broken. However, it was only a temporary fix. It didn’t take long for me to find myself wearing it again. However, this time I wasn’t wearing it everyday. Some days when things were bad I would wear it, but the days were getting better slowly.

Maddie Porter

As of today, I don’t wear The Mask too much anymore, even when I do have a bad day.

I have grown to be able to express my self. Yet still, every now and then, I feel it creeping up on me. I feel the call of The Mask.

22

Holt Robison

23

My Reluctant Return to Dixie -Evan Itzkowitz

In life, there are a few questions everyone gets asked at some time or another. What’s your name? What’s your birthday? Where are you from? How do you like your eggs?

Coke or Pepsi?

While the correct answers for the latter two are clearly scrambled and Coke, it’s the third question that I have difficulty answering.

Where are you from?

I begin by saying that I was born in Mississippi, and then explain my dad’s 20 years of service in the Navy. As a military child, I’ve lived in every U.S. time zone except Mountain. I’ve experienced cultural differences that make neighboring states seem like completely different countries. After less than a year in Mississippi, we moved to San Diego, and then to Los Angeles.

Just before my fifth birthday, we relocated to the nation’s capital, where we lived for over 10 years. I spent two thirds of my life growing up in the cultural melting pot that is the D.C. metro area; my time there shaped who I am today. I expected to tell the people I would meet in college that I’m a city kid from D.C. Mere months into my freshman year of high school, my dad received three weeks’ notice to transfer to Camp Lejeune. While we have been through deployments before, this was different. It wasn’t routine. It wasn’t expected. Our family was in shock. My dad had been in the middle of orders, which typically provides a service member and their family some stability.

Before I knew it, my dad was living on his own six hours away. Our 24

family managed the best we could and I was fortunate to finish the school year before we joined my dad in North Carolina.

I wasn’t exactly delighted to be heading South. Although my mother’s parents lived in Mississippi and my father’s parents lived in Georgia, the South was a place I visited, not lived.

I was apprehensive and full of preconceived notions.

When one is accustomed to tolerance and diversity, it becomes very apparent when it’s lacking. In my new hometown, the majority of the minority population resides in one area; the racial divide is very real. Living in large cities, I grew up seeing people for who they are; never judging them by the color of their skin, their religious beliefs, or their nationality. In North Carolina, I was horrified and disgusted by the bigotry I encountered. The endless barrage of “n-words” and racist remarks amongst my classmates presented itself on my first day of school. I tried my best to tune it out. I thought “laying low” would be the best way to acclimate. I soon realized, though, that I am unable to stay silent in the face of racism and hate. I determined that I am in a position to, at least to some

extent, teach tolerance by resisting hate.

I also realized that I am in a position to learn. As Editor-inChief of my school newspaper, I recently wrote an op-ed on the current political climate of the country, for which I interviewed several of my classmates. Although their perspectives and politics differ from mine, I learned that by listening, truly listening, I was better able to understand the wider spectrum of some deep-rooted issues in our country. Through writing, I realized: tolerance isn’t just about race or religion. It includes being tolerant of others’ points of view, too.

Experiencing my final years of high school in the South, with an open mind, taught me the importance of perspective and of careful and thoughtful consideration before forming an opinion of a person or an idea. What’s more, living in the South taught me the answer to “where I am from.” I am from the United States of America, and like every other American, I am a compilation of my experiences, my circumstances, and my environment.

Cooper Pate

Alexis Mearns

Growth Is Hard -Ja’Helyah Washington

What is “Growth?”

The ability to accept To accept Mistakes And change In growth is change You can’t feel change But you can see change You have to realize That you can’t grow without change Many see change as a bad thing Because

It looks different It sounds unfamiliar It feels uncomfortable But how could you grow without Change?

Growth is the ability to become “better” In a way So, no...

Growth is not hard.

Growth is simple.

Changing is hard.

25

First Love I feel the morning dew as it seeps through the thin cloth beneath us The sun begins to rise Casting over us a blanket of pink and purple pastels The sounds of birds chirping and waves crashing Fill the otherwise silent air There is no need to talk For the way Your hand cradles mine like a delicate flower Speaks millions of words for us And with the cool spring breeze You begin to pull me closer In this single moment The warmth of the sun Bleeds into our hearts and melts away our fears You and I Once two are now one -Leo Glenn

26

Margaret Dill

Tree of Life The tree of life is unlike any other It grows in the dark, waiting to bloom in the light It does not truly start to grow until the autumn leaves fall from sight It is found in a deep place where even the loudest sound cannot reach It never truly begins to grow until it feels the blustery weather of another dark, cold winter It grows until it reaches spring Where it is stronger than all the others Because it never stopped to break under the smother Of another somber winter Once the autumn leaves come, the tree of life reaches its harsh reality once more That it cannot grow unless it feels the cold and lonely wind And foresees its fate aligned With the coming of the foreboding winter Does this tree sound familiar?

It sounds strangely close to the thing we call life Humans go through a series of strife And they never truly grow until they feel the frost And yet, they avoid the ice and the lesson of another winter.

-Erica Harris

Abigail Smith

27

How Much Can You Take People say you can steal someone’s identity.

They say it’s easy, any criminal can do it.

But can they really?

Can someone just take away who I am?

Fine, take my name, my accomplishments, Who I am to the outside world.

But you can never take away What makes me me.

You can take my face.

But you cannot take my heart.

-Stella Bloom

28

Alexis Mearns

Aurelia Colvin

Inner Goddess Moving around from town to town Leaving a different piece of me in the ground I can be what I want I can choose who to be Because I know what’s truly inside of me I used to look at the ground And never stare in a face Always too embarrassed of what they might think Never spoke my mind, I was too afraid to shout But now, Newfound confidence erased any doubts Inner goddess screaming to get out Forming my own opinions, sharing my thoughts Without fear of being judged I step into the future with my head held high 30

-Caroline Broderick

Avery Bishop

The Carnival -Jagger van Vliet

Every year the carnival comes. Every year I go. I sit on a bench that is rotting at the edges. I watch the great big tents go up. Their multicolored flags rippling majestically in the cool, crisp fall air. The smell of hay and animal waste permeates the air. Though it bothers others, the construction of the carnival does not quite bother me. The earthy smell of the colorful wagons that roll into town on rickety wooden wheels is a comfort to me. I sit on my rotting bench and enjoy inhaling the sweet smell of fall wind mixed with the ever growing scent of baked goods and doughy concoctions. I gaze out at the majestic fairgrounds with a deep feeling of pride.

My first few days at the fair are spent simply wandering the temporary highway made for all those who seek the joyous wonderment that only the carnival brings. The carnival only stays for a short while so I do make sure to try everything. I stop at almost every cider stall and sip the sweet nectar made from the freshly picked fruit. It warms my core, but not nearly as much as the crispy dough that some of the vendors sell. The dough is my guilty pleasure. Even if it is more pleasure than guilt that consumes me on my strolls through the brightly painted world of stalls.

Sometimes I watch the parades that march by at the top of every hour. However, I usually only watch the parade that comes marching at noon. The noon procession is by far the most exuberant and loud.

The mash-up of roaring animals dressed in golden uniforms and performers waving to the crowds of cheering bystanders has become a white noise to me.

Only after I have explored the stalls do I proceed into the area filled with enormous tents that tower over the fairground. They cast oddly jubilant shadows on the already immensely cheery fairground. I enjoy the circus most of all. I like watching the elephants march out into the ring, leaving the earthy smell that

is tinged with the smell of hay behind them. People clap. Some people throw peanuts out into the ring.

I join in occasionally, but most times I simply enjoy the atmosphere. The happiness that is shared with everyone. The childish wonder that is brought out in every man and woman. Nothing can match that amount of pure bliss that people relish as they gleefully cheer along with the marching band. With their shimmering golden instruments projecting music throughout the air, only adding to the bubbling feeling already in every person’s heart.

Finally, when the carnival packs up, when all the animals are packed back into their rainbow colored wagons when those same wagons are wheeled out of town, it is then that I return to my bench. Back to watching the empty field that once held such childlike enthusiasm. The same place that once triggered such immense celebration is now gone. Only for the moment. It will be back. I’ll still be here on my bench that is rotting at the edges. I will be waiting for the carnival.

Fisher Ramsey 31

Contemplating in the Cold Drowning in bitter cold. but none of the frigidness gets to me.

I’m resting in a ball of warmth created by the soft fluffy attire that I am decked in.

An emptiness of white, until speculating the blue sky raised above me.

My brain thinking about nothing, just staring into what I discover.

The adventure as if I am passing straight through a cloud.

All afternoon, noticing The birds chirping, the foxes scampering, and the occasional moose’s footsteps demolishing the snow into the earth.

The light becoming faint and no more beasts to hear.

Dawn to dusk, a sentiment for today and a glow beaming continuously throughout time.

The chill finally creeping in and darkness overwhelming.

By daylight, glancing beyond my window.

Remembering the smooth experience of the clean soft snow.

As more flakes drizzle down, I have a hope.

A hope that today will be like the last when I was a fire of light in a storm of cold.

-Cooper Pate

Margaret Dill

Let the Phoenix Fly -Emily Elizabeth Penton

To do or die; to stay or nye?

I’d stay just to leave in which one would grieve and leave to stay where there lives no prey.

Wolves will be wolves; lions will be lions.

So let me free from this cage where all that’s contained is rage, so I may live without sin.

They say I’m bionic; I say they’re toxic.

But without who we’ve been, the world wouldn’t spin and we would all consist of nothing.

Brought in to stay ‘til my wings were grown, but died before my second stone was thrown.

Cut I was down because they threw my crown into an ardent and spiteful ditch.

But I rose from the flames and reclaimed my name and embraced what was meant to be mine.

Bennett Dahl

33

The Promise -Mairead Benson September 23, 1941 “Christine! Christine! Wait up! Kip!” Shouted a boy to his friend, Christine Grant. The crisp Autumn air tossed Christine’s honey colored hair to and fro while she waited for her lifelong best-friend, Will Tory, to catch up with her.

“Good morning, Will,” Christine said with a grin. Will tried to smile back but, he couldn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to smile right now. “Will, what’s wrong?” Christine asked. “Christine?” Will asked. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course, Will. You know that. You can tell me anything,” Christine responded.

Well, Will thought. It’s probably better I tell her myself, so she doesn’t figure out from someone else. “I got drafted by the Navy,” Will whispered. Christine slowly dropped her hand from his shoulder. She looked shocked.

“What?” She asked. She looked at him with a look of pure disbelief. “You got drafted? How? I mean, you’re only seventeen. They normally don’t draft people until they’re eighteen.”

He looked at her with a sad look in his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything to her. He could only shake his head.

“I got drafted because I am going to be turning 18 the day before I’m supposed to be in Liverpool,” Will told her.

Her eyes suddenly turned glassy, like a calm lake in the middle of summer. She knew Will was going to leave her, and he might not ever come back. Losing him meant losing it all. He wrapped his arms around her like a blanket, trying protect her from the cruel world. She just cried.

“Christine Elizabeth Grant. Listen to me,” he told her.

“You are strong. I know that for a fact. I am going to go away for a while and you have to stay here and defend the homefront. Take care of your family. Watch after mine.

Learn new things and inspire new people because that is something you are good at.”

Christine smiled and laughed a tiny little laugh. She looked him directly in the eye and slowly brought her hand up to a salute. Will laughed.

“Sir yes sir!” Christine said. Will laughed again and pulled Christine into a hug.

Will playfully punched Christine in the arm and wrapped his arm around her neck. She struggled to get out of his choke-hold and when she did, she stuck her tongue out at him, like she used to do when they were kids. Will walked over to her and looked down at her. “Promise me you won’t give up, Kip. No matter what happens.” He told her. “I promise.”

January 6, 1942 The German soldiers were firing mercilessly at the retreating English troops. English soldiers, Will’s friends and comrades, were falling to the cold, foreign ground, already dead or dying. It killed him to run past them, but 34

Will knew couldn’t help them. He also knew it wasn’t safe for any man to be standing in the middle of this battlefield.

That is, unless he had a death wish.

Will was almost to the woods where he would be able to safely get back to his ship when he felt something hit his chest and the burning pain that immediately followed.

He put his hand to his chest. He pulled it away and cursed under his breath. He was shot.

He kept running but with every step. Will felt the energy draining out of him. Keep going, Will. He was thinking to himself. Keep going.

Will made it into the woods and collapsed onto the frozen ground, scarlet spreading in the snow. He dragged himself over to a large oak tree and painfully propped himself up against it. I walked out from behind a tree, and Will looked right at me and smiled.

“You’re late,” he told me. I stared at him with disbelief.

“I know I’m going to die. I just want to spend a little more time here. Not like this is comfortable or anything,” Will chuckled but grimaced at the pain that it brought. I walked over to him and looked down at his chest. The scarlet has blossomed into a large circle on the front of his uniform and soaked into the snow surrounding him. “I’ve never been afraid of dying but now, as I am looking you straight in the eye, I’m terrified.”

I looked at him and crouched down next to him. “It’s ok to be scared.”

“I hate being scared,” he told me. “Because then I’m not able to help the people I love. When I’m scared, I don’t feel brave.”

I looked at him for a second and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Will, just because you are scared, that doesn’t mean you aren’t brave,” I told him.

“But, how can a man be brave if he is afraid?” he asked me. I gave him a weary smile. “That is the only time a man can be brave.”

Will nodded. “Find her, please. And take care of her.

I beg you.” I knew who he was talking about. Christine.

“Please, she’s strong but, this war has taken too much from her. She needs someone to take care of her.”

Hearing the end of his plea, I realized what he was asking me to do. I nodded and put the picture into my pocket. “I will. I promise.” Will smiled. The pain had almost been completely erased from his face. “Take me home, friend.”

“Alright, Captain.”

March 19, 1943 “Mom! Have you checked the mail yet today?”

Christine called to her mother. Christine checked the mail every day because she received a letter from Will about once a week. But, she hadn’t received anything that week. Or the week before. Or the week before. Maybe he’s abroad. She thought herself.

“I haven’t, Christine. Can you go and do it? I’m busy” her mother replied. Christine walked out to the mailbox at the front of the yard and opened it. There were several bills with “OVERDUE” stamped on the envelope. There was also a small package inside of the mailbox. It was addressed to “Ms. Christine Grant.” It was from Will. Christine’s heart

stopped for a brief moment when she saw the package. She took it out of the mailbox and sat down on the grass next.

She slowly opened the package and a letter fell out of it.

My sweet, darling, Kip, I miss you dearly. It is dreadful being on this boat for as long as I am. I am sending you this letter because I do not know when I might reach another port. We are heading around Africa to try and get to Japan. My commander told us that it is a perilous operation, and we should prepare for the worst. I wanted to send you two things with his letter.

The first is my dog tags, so you always have a piece of me with you, even when I’m gone. The second is a request. There is a chance that I will not be returning home and I want you to stay strong. Don’t let your past keep you from succeeding great things.

Love, your very best friend, your technical brother, and the greatest captain in the English Navy, Will Christine was laughing and crying at the same time.

She took out the dog tags and put them around her neck. It was like she had a piece of him with her, right next to heart.

She looked out upon the crystal clear harbor. “I believe in you, Will,” she said out loud. “I always have and always will. You will come back.” I started walking towards her, but my reflection in a storefront window stopped me. Well, it was more my lack of reflection that stopped me. When I looked back at the window, I was wearing a black suit that accentuated my unnaturally pallid skin. The wind blew a strand of jet black hair into my face. I really should’ve cut my hair. I continued to walk towards Christine. When I approached her, she looked up at me and frantically wiped the tears off of her face. “May I help you?” she asked me. I looked down at her.

“Christine, there is something you need to know,” I told her. She looked extremely surprised and jumped to her feet.

I should’ve tried a better approach.

“How do you know my name?” she asked me frantically.

I took a step towards her and she stumbled away from me, her emerald gaze locked with mine.

“Will sent me.”

Her eyes widened at the sound of his name, and she walked back towards me. “You know Will? Where is he? Is he alright?” “Christine, it’s easier if I just show you,” I told her. “Show me?” She asked questioningly. “What do you-” I took her hand and showed her my memory of finding Will in the woods. Of him confessing he’s scared, of him asking me to watch after her, and of his last request. Take me home, friend. I let go of her hand and put my hand on her shoulder. “Christine, are you alright?” I asked, my voice wavering slightly.

She looked my straight in the eyes, her face betraying her confusion and curiosity. “Who are you?”

May 8, 1945 I walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table next to Christine’s younger sister, Meg. Christine’s mother, Amelia, entered the kitchen from her husband’s old office and poured herself and I a cup of coffee. It had been two years since I first met Kip, and she hasn’t let me go since.

But, I have no issue with it. As time went on, I actually began to fall in love with her, and she with me. She didn’t care who, or what, I was.

“Thank you, Kip. For everything,” I told her. She smiled at me and planted a light kiss on my cheek, causing me to blush slightly.

She chuckled and sat down in the seat next to me.

“You’re welcome, darling.”

“Kip,” Amelia asked. “Have you seen your brother?”

“Not since sunrise. He went off to the creek with Edward, carrying with him his fishing pole and a promise that he would be making dinner tonight.” Kip answered. We all laughed.

“Well then, my love, looks like you have the evening off!” Amelia exclaimed. Christine laughed and sat back in her chair, taking a sip of her coffee. We all sat in silence for a few minutes until Kip’s younger brother, Oliver, came running into the kitchen waving a newspaper around above his head.

“Mama! Kip! Henrik! Meg! You must hear the news!”

Oliver shouted gleefully. “The war’s over!”

We stared at him in shock. None of us could say anything. Amelia rose from her chair, placed her hands over her heart, and looked at the ceiling. “Thank you,” she whispered. She ran over to her son and threw her arms around him, tears of joy rolling down her face. Christine jumped up and joined her mother. Young Meg followed suit. Christine ran over to me, grinning. I picked her up and spun her around. We all started to dance around the kitchen singing, “It’s over! It’s over!”

We heard a loud explosion outside the house, and we all stopped dead in our tracks, fearing yet another bomb attack. But, that fear was quickly alleviated by the sounds of cheering coming from street out front. We ran to the front door and swung it open, revealing a huge celebration.

Almost the whole city was crowded onto our street, waving the Union Jack, joyfully embracing each other, and watching the fireworks exploding above our heads.

Christine wrapped her arms around my neck, and I pulled her into a hug. She pulled back slightly and leaned her forehead against mine. I looked down into her emerald eyes and noticed, for the first time in 3 years, they once again glowed with youthful joy.

“I told you everything would turn out okay.” I said to her. She looked at me and smiled.

“You did, didn’t you?” She asked. “How did you know, may I ask?”

I laughed and drew away from her. “You may ask but, I will not tell you. A magician never tells his secrets.”

Christine grabbed my hand and pulled her back to me. As she leaned close to me, her neighbor ran up to us carrying two glasses.

“Christine! Henrik! Here, have a drink to celebrate this joyous day!” He offered the glasses to us with a large grin and stumbled back into the crowd. I looked down and the drink in my hand and then at Christine. I slowly raised my glass, and Christine did the same.

“To Captain Tory,” I whispered. She gave me a small smile.

35 “To Captain Tory.”

Please Don’t Call Me

By My Name

-Brooke Sanderford

Yes indeed I am white I am so white Everything about the color describes me It’s blank It has no emotion It isn’t loud I don’t speak The one thing about the color is It stains so easily The harsh reds The volatile purples Even the soft blues They all stain me So easily stained I’m turning gray

Sylvia Atwood

Masterpiece -Kiera Draffen

Let the light o’er head Tarry more on its way Tempt rays search the surface Seek awhile, pleased to stay Long suffer and toil Hard pressed in the ground Frost crusted tomb Yield nary a sound ‘Till a kiss from the rain A shout from the sky Throw the coat open Break forth mighty try Join Earth to the heavens Sing, dance, stretch and play Let the light o’er head Tarry more on its way

Grace Haslam

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The Heart of Who We Are -Brooks Meine

Identity is who we are, but it’s so much more, It’s our hidden traits and personalities galore.

But identity isn’t about the here and now, It’s about reaping what we sow.

Identity is about the things we can be, How the humble caterpillar will someday fly free.

Identity doing things now that we can someday cash in, It is our limitless goals and our never ending passion.

See, identity is about us as a person, How we handle situations as they worsen.

The connections we make when interacting with others, Helping our neighbors and sisters and brothers.

Identity is everything about us, everything we have done, Everything that we will do before the setting of the sun.

It’s the heart of who we are, it’s staying true to ourselves, It’s writing millions of books to store on our bookshelves.

It’s about not giving up when times are tough, when there’s no easy way out.

It’s about digging in and saying “I can get through this, no doubt.”

Identity can be hard to protect, when people tell you to change who you are.

When they tell you that you don’t fit in, or aren’t cool, or aren’t a star.

But if you know yourself and know that you are fine with others calling you strange, You know for a fact that you never need to change.

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Miller Dalton

Jagger van Vliet

Let Go of the Glass -Abigail Smith

I once read a story that suggested stress is like a glass of water. The absolute weight of the glass doesn’t matter; what matters is how long you hold on to it. If you hold on to it for only a minute, you won’t feel bad. If you hold on to it for an hour, your arm will start to hurt. If you hold on to it for a day, your arm will begin to feel numb.

No matter how long you hold onto the glass, the absolute weight won’t change, but it will feel heavier. This is similar to stress; the longer you hold on to a problem, the heavier it will become.

My initial thought was: It’s not that easy. You can put the glass down whenever you want, but you can’t just put your problems down when they get hard to hold. If you just simply set the glass down on the table, it will still be there. You will still be aware of its presence even if the pain lessens.

You might not be able to put your problems down whenever you please, but you can let your stress go. If you are holding a glass and you let it go, it will hit the floor and break. All that will be left is undesirable pieces of glass that you can easily brush away. If you learn to let go of your stress, your problems might still be there in pieces, but the stress will be gone. You will be able to brush your problems away. They will not hurt you anymore.

When you let go of the glass, the pain won’t disappear right away. You will still feel discomfort and you will know you struggled, but the pain will lessen. Overtime, the pain will go away completely. Eventually, you won’t even remember that you struggled to hold the glass.

I don’t want my stress to weigh me down. I won’t let my problems define me. I am going to let go of the glass.

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What Makes Me “Me” -Chiara Kellogg

Auburn printed trees lined the rolling hills of a small New England town.

The air, brisk and with bite, carried with it the comforting smells of pumpkin and cinnamon.

A young family, consisting of a couple and their two childrena son and a daughter- picked their way through a quaint apple orchard.

The girl served as her father’s binoculars, riding on his shoulders and guiding their way to the hidden gems.

From her perch, she was able to see the vast green leaves dotted with hints of gold and yellow, marking the presence of their sought after treat.

Mesmerized by the calm, turquoise sky, she was barely able to hear the soft crunch of fallen leaves under her father’s shoes.

The shouts of laughter from her mother and brother rang through her, drawing her back into reality.

She quickly remembered her purpose and steered her father to a bunch of promising apples.

She reached her hand into the prickly and emerald bushel and returned with her prize.

Biting into it, she was filled with nothing but joy- its taste as fresh and crisp as the air.

She shared the fruit with her family, longing to fill them with the joy this day had brought her.

She soon found herself falling into sleep after a day which seemed to be a dream itself.

The memories from this day lingered long with her, and the tradition of family apple picking carried on for every year of her childhood.

These outings, although short and occasional, emphasized the importance of her family and the unity which tied them together.

The piece she played in her family’s puzzle as a sister and daughter, came to be a key part of how she viewed herself.

And she carried these memories with her for the rest of her life.

Zhi Zhang (Proteus)

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Where I’m From I am from a coastal town, from sails and surfboards and bountiful amounts of chicken.

I am from a childhood of wind filled rafters, bright sunny days, salty ocean splashes, and an affectionate family.

I am from the water and sand filled mattresses.

I am from Thanksgiving surfing trips and hard work and perseverance, from a loving man and woman.

I am from the big pond expeditions and heaps of flights.

From following your dream and determination.

I am from a religiously devout family.

I’m from the east coast, more specifically the sandy shorelines, and plentiful proteins.

From the commitment my dad poses, the loving shadow my parents cast, and the playful nature of my best friend.

I am from sand, saltwater, waves, fish, and boats.

-Chase Carraway

Grace Haslam

Audrey Dahl

Paradise Isn’t a Reality -Landon Scharf

On the coast of California sat a small beach town.

To the west there were vast mountain ranges.

To the east the ocean stretched for as far as the eye could see.

The town was known for its beauty and wildlife.

One summer day a tourist by the name of Javier arose at dawn to experience the sun rising.

He stepped out of the car and immediately welcomed the salty air.

He stretched while observing a flock of gulls cluttered around French fries.

The gulls violently squawked as they dove down to snatch a snack.

Javier then looked to the right to sea the sun was emerging.

He winced at the rising neon crescent.

He hadn’t realized he’d been peering directly at it when his eyes began to water.

He wiped away a tear or two and continued on his voyage.

The sand was rough and cold as night.

Javier wished he could sprout wings and flutter above shore.

Yet, he disregarded the thought, and enjoyed the rest of his morning in paradise.

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Growing Up -Macy Magan

I am from 2314 Tattersalls Dr a white house with a red door smelling of baked goods with candles always lit I am from a fried turkey at Thanksgiving and Southern cooking from Mom and Dad and Drew I am from sibling arguments and group hugs from be on your best behaviour and use your manners I am from the hindu culture where you treat everyone like family I am from Wilmington, North Carolina from the grandparents who were landowners to the grandmothers who raised their children to the fullest from family pictures taking up all the wall space to continuous tender, love, and care I am from southern living from amazing food to loving family and friends I am from fresh baked desserts, cupcakes, and cookies I am from love and laughter, joy, and smiles

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Miller Dalton

From the Beginning to a New Beginning -Danny Shen

“Welcome to Sea-Tac airport. Baggage … is at … four.”

This was the first sentence I heard after landing in Sea-Tac airport, and also my first time stepping onto this fascinating and mysterious land, although, it was quite obscure to me back then. It was in August of 2014, when I came to the U.S for my freshman year of high school. I was all by myself; it was my first time being in a solely English environment. My hands started sweating, and my heart was beating fast.

I stared at the blue sky through the huge windows displaying all the planes and thought about my parents, wishing they were with me at that moment.

But I comforted myself, thinking about the old fisherman Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea, who couldn’t catch a single fish in eighty-four days. He had lost his reputation as a fisherman and his young helper, Manolin, as well. If he could make it through difficulties in such a harsh environment, I can make it through mine. Therefore, I made up my mind and successfully passed through customs with my “Chinglish” that I had studied for six years.

After passing through customs, I finally got into the enormous main terminal building of Sea-Tac. I took a deep breath, figured out that the next most important thing to do was to find the connecting gate. But since it was my first visit at Sea-Tac, I was entranced by everything around me: the announcements directing people in English, the fancy fast food restaurants, and the people rushing to their gates. It was the first time in my life that I’d ever felt lost. The first thing that came to my mind was to check the information board: Whoa, pure English, hundreds of flight details. Luckily, it went in alphabetical order and Atlanta starts with an “A,” so it was just at the top of the list.

I’d been lucky so far, at least until I arrived at my

next gate. The flight attendant at my gate announced: “May I have your attention please passengers for flight DL 296? We are sorry to announce that there are some...issues with the airplane. We will announce the next possible boarding time as soon as possible.”

After learning that I had to spend a night in the airport because of the thirteen-hour delay, I was filled with dread. It wasn’t the welcome to America I expected. I comforted myself that at least the tech crew had found the problem on land instead of in the air.

Compared to my rocky start at Sea-Tac airport, the past three years have been smooth sailing. Having lived with the same host family throughout my entire high school career, I feel not only supported, but also like one in the family. I no longer struggle with ordering food in restaurants, no longer feel lost in this unfamiliar society, and no longer worry about whether my decision of coming to America to study was a good one or not.

There is an old Chinese saying that before Heaven confers a great opportunity on any man, it challenges his mind and body with suffering. Being far away from home has been a real challenge, but through this experience I have become more independent. I have felt lonely, lost, and helpless at times, but these all make me stronger and ready for a new adventure.

The amount of effort we put in always indicates how much outcome we receive, just like the old fisherman Santiago. If he gave up on the eighty-fifth day, he wouldn’t have been able to catch the biggest marlin he ever saw. Even if my “marlin”, like Santiago’s, is eaten by sharks, the effort I put in is worth more than the outcome.

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Redefining

Beauty -Caroline Caviness

I will never forget the knot in my stomach as I stood center stage, the bright lights blinding me, casting only a shadow of silhouettes in the crowd with sporadic flashes of light capturing my picture.

I stood there never breaking my smile, composed, perfect posture, an image of sophisticated grace, but I just wanted to barf. It was my turn to grab the mic and answer the secret question that the judges of the 2017 Azalea Festival Princess Pageant had so carefully picked out for me.

I had been dreading this part the whole night of the pageant. Every girl is expected to answer her question flawlessly using perfect diction without a single stutter or pause. Slipping out a single “um” or “like” was considered the most unthinkable crime. The perfect answers to each of the questions were already written out in the judges’ minds and the 26 other girls and I were somehow supposed to know these answers despite never even seeing the questions.

When my name was called I took a breath, hidden behind my smile of course, and waltzed center stage where I was handed a microphone. Then, after a brief introduction, the announcer read my question aloud.

“Which would you rather have, beauty or intelligence?”

I have to say, I was very fortunate with the question I received because after hearing the questions previous to mine the “correct” answers were pretty vague, while mine was quite clear. As soon as I heard my question, I knew exactly how I was supposed to answer it. However, that answer didn’t match up with my own opinion. The judges wanted the response, “I would rather have intelligence because blah blah blah… and looks don’t matter blah blah…” because this was a scholarship pageant, not a beauty pageant.

But this wasn’t my answer. My answer would say that “beauty is more than what is on the surface… beauty is character… and love… and kindness.” As someone whose passion is cosmetology, I think it is important 46

Sylvia Atwood

for people to be able to reflect their unique beauty inside and out. If I was giving my honest opinion, even though intelligence is a beneficial characteristic to possess, I would rather have beauty than be smart.

So which should I give them: my idea of the truth, or the answer they wanted to hear? Keep in mind, I had approximately two seconds to formulate my response before suggesting to the judges that I didn’t know the answer.

I looked into the audience of silhouettes, barely able to distinguish faces, but seeing my mother, grandmother, and little cousins. I thought about the things I wanted them to hear to uplift them and make them into caring, confident women. I thought about the incredible young girls I had the pleasure of getting to know leading up to this pageant standing on stage behind me. Lastly, I thought about myself and the answer I wanted to deliver, to inspire them and help them see what gorgeous people they are.

In the those two deciding seconds I had to choose who to answer: a panel of judges and their score cards, or the people I care about and myself. If you’re wondering which I chose, here’s a hint. I’m not the 2017 Azalea Festival Princess, but I am a strong, confident young woman with the power to spread positivity and beauty through my community and will continue to do so.

Longtime Farewell -Ana Sharbaugh

The dread I tried so desperately to push down Bursts from my chest and leaks from my skin.

I survey the cramped interior of Jake’s dorm And look down at the faceless students rooming campus.

I follow my parents and brother to the elevator, mechanically.

My shoes gently skim the carpet.

The realization floods my head And tightens around my neck.

The seconds are precious Like sand falling through my fingers.

The seconds are heavy, weighing me down And compressing 17 years of memories into a feeble shimmer.

I’m surprised because I feel like I’m going to cry, Something I can never do.

“Bye, Ana,” Jake says to me in a tone of confused amusement.

“See you soon,” I reply evenly.

With a stinging heart, I watch the elevator doors close, Both fast and slow, until he is gone.

Maddie Porter

The Discovery of My Passion -George Austria

In the same way a painter gets distracted by the beauty of the shapes and colors of the world, I’m distracted by the sounds I hear within my surroundings and the music I listen to. Listening to everything from classical to metal to jazz to electronic, I’m obsessed with identifying scale modes, chords, grooves, instrumentation, etc. Not only do I figure out what I’m feeling when listening to a song or piece, I also try to explain why it makes me feel that way. I even get caught up in environments that were never intended to be musical when, for instance, I pick up cool rhythms in the bustling noise of a busy downtown street, or in the various bird calls and insect buzzes I hear when I take an evening walk with my dog.

I’ve discovered that the practical application for these skills, other than the amusement I get from them, lies in the lessons I learn from them that I couldn’t have so easily learned anywhere else. Practicing has forced me to create preparation strategies and organization skills. Performing has trained me in being comfortable in front of crowds and public speaking situations. Gatherings such as participating in various orchestras, auditions, and NC Governor’s School have boosted my confidence in social situations.

The most important lesson, however, applies to all parts of life at once. Understanding it requires the context that my music playing journey began with piano in third grade. I was enthusiastic at first, but that interest soon faded, and the only motive I had for continuing was not disappointing my parents and teacher. My practice sessions were always the minimum fifteen minutes a day that my parents enforced and were rushed and unproductive. I somehow managed to get some decently technical Clementi, Bach, and Beethoven under my belt, but by sophomore year my progress stalled, so I quit with the excuse of having too much schoolwork to be able to practice.

I was drawn back into music performance last summer at Governor’s School with mallet percussion. The orchestra concerts I took part in there were the first time I can truly say I was taught to emotionally connect with the music. Rather than fixating my brain around proper technique, I balanced those thoughts with the core focus of communicating to the audience feelings that can’t be described in English because music is a language in itself.

Nerves no longer stymied my playing because I now saw the music as a good friend that I was eager to introduce to the audience rather than a goal I was obligated to complete. Freezing and then solemnly relaxing under the lead of the conductor at the end of each piece, realizing and taking pride in what I had just helped create was both moving and a joy.

I came back home at the end of the five-and-a-half weeks hungry to retreat back to my school’s practice room. My practice routines are no longer hasty boxes on an afternoon to-do list, but spaces of time to drill my technique, fine tune my expressiveness, and truly study my pieces. I want to be skilled enough at marimba to convey my thoughts through it as easily as I am able to speak. Now, as I’m successfully learning college level fourmallet solos in my busiest year yet, I realize that I didn’t stop piano because I was too busy, but because didn’t love playing it the way I love marimba. If you have a passion for anything, a mild hinderance like schoolwork isn’t a big enough obstacle. Whether it’s music, a career, or any life decision, I will succeed, because I will know to choose the thing that I love doing.

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Moving On Life marches forward from grade to grade My pants are too short; old memories fade.

Life can’t stand still, this I understand as true, But to my senior siblings, I’m going to miss you.

-William Dahl

Mack Webb

City of Glass When twilight covers the glass like city, The buildings shimmer very prettily.

The Autumn colored leaves litter the grass, To celebrate the summer that has come to pass.

The soldiers have returned and as tradition tells, A ball will begin after ringing church bells.

A chime for the soldiers who have returned with pride.

A chime for the young girl who may soon be a bride.

A chime for the distant lands who may be foe or friend.

And a chime for the angels from whom we descend.

Citizens flock the streets and head for the square, As the growing darkness adds a slight chill to the air.

Music begins as the sun sets to the west, And the lanterns illuminate the city’s noble crest.

People are dressed in symbolic black and white: White for their guardians and black for the night.

They dance until the church bells ring once more, Signaling the end of the evening and time to return to their door.

They leave the square without a moment to dwell, Saying to each other, “Ave atque vale,” “Hail and farewell.”

They return to their homes for the rest of the night, By the light of the Moon, which is brilliantly bright.

While the opalescent Moon shines on dew-covered grass, The seraphs watch over the City of Glass.

Elizabeth Filbert 50

-Mairead Benson

Growth Through Art -Sylvia Atwood

Nothing any artist makes is permanent. What lasts is the impression that the artwork leaves on those who experience it. Are works able to inspire ideas, instill fear, or send an audience plummeting back in time? Our brains are complex and impressionable and shaped by our different perceptions of the world, such as societal constructs and personal memories.

I have struggled in the past with my identity as a woman, battling feelings of inadequacy that I know so many girls unjustly struggle with as well. I discovered my own confidence by celebrating the female body in all of its forms through my artwork. My selfperception changed drastically after challenging myself to think more positively, revealing the potential to alter the perceptions of those around me through art.

The gender roles in our society weigh heavily on so many women who feel held to impossible standards.

I am interested in learning about the construct of gender and the impact it has on the development of the individual within the community. Examining the relationship between gender and self image will assist me in addressing its associated issues in my artwork.

I also often wonder what happens inside one’s brain when he or she looks at a piece of art. There are ways to tap into the workings of the mind in order to elicit profound reactions from an audience.

The fundamentally relatable aspects of the human experience can be taken advantage of within an artwork in order to broaden its emotional impact.

There are some primal human reactions that everyone will instinctually experience when put in certain situations. For example, standing in a dark, curved tunnel will automatically elicit feelings of anxiety and apprehension, no matter who the viewer.

Childhood is another inescapable part of the human experience. When growing up, everyone has a distorted perception of their environment. The comfortable naivete we are bundled in as children continues to linger with us even after we are ushered out into the harsh reality of the world. Seeing a childhood artifact as an adult and having it look less magical than remembered is a universally relatable

experience. The same could be said for déjà vu, a phenomenon that if successfully incorporated into art could create unlimited opportunities in terms of an audience’s experience. A glimpse of a street sign or a whiff of a perfume holds the power to send our minds reeling back to a moment that has inexplicably stuck with us over the years. By further exploring how our past experiences impact our perception, I will channel my findings into the creation of artwork that evokes strong emotional responses.

My priority will always be creative growth in the studio. I used to consider myself a painter, however

Sylvia Atwood

over the past two years I have been increasingly drawn to making three dimensional work, including sculpture and mixed media assemblages. I have found that engaging a viewer becomes easier when the artwork invades their space. I do not have a predetermined focus on one specific medium, but rather a passion for art that pushes me to explore and grow through multiple disciplines.

My intellectual interests lie in the fields that deepen my understanding of the world so that I can better capture it in my creative endeavors. My ultimate goal is communicating my ideas and inspiring emotion in others through art, the universal language.

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Colophon Body text is Minion Pro Regular. Headline font is High Tower. The magazine is free of charge to the school community. The High Tide staff has access to three ASUS desktops. We are grateful for the school’s support in covering printing and other expenses associated with High Tide. Our publisher is Printworks, Wilmington, North Carolina. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 100# text stock for the inside pages. High Tide was created using Adobe InDesign CC 2015 and Adobe PhotoshopCC 2015. Cape Fear Academy is a member of the following professional organizations: National Council of Teachers of English, North Carolina English Teachers Association, North Carolina Scholastic Media Association, and National Association of Independent Schools.

Editors

Lily Howell, editor Amanda Edwards, assistant editor Evan Itzkowitz, design editor Dani Kranchalk, prose editor Haley Dunn, photography editor Grant Frazier, poetry editor Sylvia Atwood, art editor Andrew Gramley, assistant design editor Erica Harris, assistant prose editor Lauren McWhinnie, assistant photography editor Alexis Mearns, assistant photography editor Casey Medlin, assistant poetry editor

Staff Members Ariana Baginski Alden Forkin Ana Sharbaugh Aisling Stegmuller Ramsay Trask Jillian Tucker Maya Tucker Mack Webb

Advisors

Emily Fancy Maureen Vanscoy

Special Thanks Shana Barclay Don Berger Ben Fancy Mandy Hamby Amanda Holliday Teresa Lambe Eric Miles Becky Mills Jan Reid Lisa Rojek Mallory Tarses Carla Whitwell

Editorial Policy

High Tide literary and arts magazine is an official publication of Cape Fear Academy. It showcases the photography, art, prose, and writing of middle and high school students at Cape Fear Academy. It is published once a year in the spring and is available for free to all students.

The purpose of High Tide is to allow students of many ages to pursue and showcase their literary and art abilities to others. Students submit their work whenever there is an open submission period or twice a year, once in the fall and once in the spring. These open submission periods are contests in which students can submit their work to be evaluated by everyone on staff. Submissions are blind: an entrant’s age, gender, grade levels, and races are not disclosed during selection process. Winners are chosen by category: fiction, essay, poetry, art, and photography, and categories are also separated by middle and upper school. The staff adjudicates pieces based on the voice, style, creativity, and literary merit. Everyone who submits to High Tide is eligible to be published in the magazine. Pieces may be edited for grammar or space, but content is not changed.

The theme for this year’s magazine was “Identity and Growth”. All published works in the magazine were centered around that theme and were considered to be some of the best representations of such theme. High Tide represents the poetic and artistic identities within Cape Fear Academy. When our students’ creative voices are heard and visions are seen, our tide runs high.

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Scholastic Awards - 2018 Writing Awards Anna Collie, 2018 George Austria, 2018 Grant Frazier, 2018 Laurel Homer, 2018 Grayson Keith, 2018 Brooke Sanderford, 2020 Sara Frances Butler, 2022 Jagger Van Vliet, 2023

Art Awards

Gold Key Silver Key Silver Key Honorable Mention Gold Key Silver Key Silver Key Gold Key

I’m An Iceberg Musical Passions* Letter to a College Essay Reader Life Without My Father * Darkness Into Light Identity: More Than Just a Label The Girl in the Meadow The Tales of Kerson Snare*

Noel-Christian Smith

Syliva Atwood, 2018 Gold Key

Great Big World Sylvia Atwood, 2018 Gold Key The Female Condition* Helena Rojek, 2019 Gold Key The Unknown Syliva Atwood, 2018 Silver Key Art Portfolio, Exposed Sylvia Atwood, 2018 Honorable Mention Fetal George Austria, 2018 Honorable Mention Return of the Flying Scotsman Eve Berg, 2022 Honorable Mention Astronaut Avery Bishop, 2022 Honorable Mention Exotic Peacock Liam Cannon, 2021 Honorable Mention Life Flipped Upside Down Margaret Dill, 2020 Honorable Mention Wash of Roses* Nash Riebe, 2023 Honorable Mention Giraffe Noel-Christian Smith, 2021 Honorable Mention Searching for a Dead End Sophia Strahan, 2023 Honorable Mention One Leap for Birdkind Molly Weinberg, 2022 Honorable Mention Carolina Ram Zoe White, 2020 Honorable Mention Demonized 53