The Repeater - 2012

Cardinal Gibbons High School is a college preparatory school of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Raleigh. We embrace the mission of Jesus Christ to form men and women of faith, service, and leadership in church and community.

The Repeater -2012Volume 15 EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Vincent Perino MANAGING EDITORS Emmary Williams and Ellyson Williams ASSOCIATE EDITOR Rachel Mintel STAFF Dani Chiavegatto, Hunter Davis, William Fenton, Elisabeth McFarland, Abby Neal, Daniel Reiland, Annetta San Diego, Karthik Sundaram COVER DESIGN David Torres ADVISER Rachelle D. Garbarine

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The Repeater We, the staff members of The Repeater, are delighted to bring you this magazine, the work it contains, and the creativity it represents.

We would like to thank all who submitted this year and encourage all students not only to read but to reflect upon the work included in this year’s edition.

It is our mission to reproduce the words, thoughts, visions, and dreams of the students, here, at Cardinal Gibbons. We are honored to publish a magazine that acts as a medium for the creativity of students to be shared with a larger community. The works within this magazine remind us of the art already present in our lives and the art that has yet to be created.

The idea of The Repeater originated while art instructor Rebecca Dason was at a school dance. She was sitting next to a student who expressed his desire to have a student-led literary and arts magazine.

His opinion was that students had no way of expressing themselves in the classroom, as many assignments did not require much creativity.

The original intent was to give students “an opportunity to express themselves through a student publication,” said Dason. The original moderator of The Repeater was Assistant Principal of Student Activities Michael Rogosich. There have been two since: English instructor Toni Sutphin and Rachelle D. Garbarine.

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Contents Literature 6 Drop of Rain Nathan Godwin 8 Nature Interrupts Samuel Raines 11 Forever Erin Watson 12 Babcia Brenna Buckley 17 A Candle Catherine Amos 18 A Woman Named Narcissa Natalie Freeman 20 Rose’s Heat Stephanie Whitecross 22 Flamingo Jack Holgado 25 A Gift and a Curse Catherine Wagner 26 Empty Paper Daniel Miles Resilient Sea Turtles Samuel Raines 28 A Poem for a Girl Jess Schmitz

Visual Art 5 Garden Joy Blair Torres 7 Ash Ellie Czejkowski Coil Pot with Lid Tim Rozansky 9 Rachel Chloe Mintel Crumple, Crush, Fold Cat Hollister 10 Pajaro de Fuego Lauren Long Afternoon Utopia David Torres 13 The Things They Carried Christina Mancini Crumpled, Crushed, Twisted William Fenton 14 License Plate Hunter Reeves 16 Hands Rachel Mintel Person-Plane Rachel Mintel 19 Costumes Cat Hollister Sky Ground Water Hunter Davis 23 D.C. Chloe Mintel Glenwood Avenue David Torres 24 Bugling Impression Blair Torres Iguana Sammy Bratzke 27 Nature’s Crown Emmary Williams

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Garden Joy Blair Torres

This piece has a base of acrylic paints, overlaid with colored pencil and magazine clippings. It received a regional Gold Key from the Scholastic Art Awards.

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Drop of Rain Nathan Godwin

I am Falling Through this dark Abyss that does not end.

The wind, try as it may to move me, Will not distract me from my impending doom.

Nothing can stop my uniformed descent to the earth below.

I am not distinguishable; I am not a unique snowflake; I am one of many.

Our only destiny is to impale the earth with such a miniscule force, Not even a small mark will remain after we wash away.

Drip drop, pitter patter.

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Ash Ellie Czejkowski This piece was nationally recognized with a Gold Key from the Scholastic Art Awards. It is made from clay, which was sawdust-fired to give the work its varied earth tones.

Coil Pot with Lid Tim Rozansky This coil pot also was nationally recognized with a Gold Key from the Scholastic Art Awards.

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Nature Interrupts Samuel Raines

The sun’s first rays hit the freshly raked clay As man’s shadow darkens the verdant grass, While the blue sky smiles as clouds drift away, Bringing joy to crowds who start to amass.

The first pitch is thrown lacking precision.

Sensing a fresh danger, the batter prepares.

The seams scold the air, striking a collision; As ball meets bone, terrible tension flares.

Gloves are thrown off as their clenched fists emerge, As cleats claw flesh, sanguine hues start to stain.

Umpires call out as the fight starts to surge; Nature answers back with showers of rain.

The players’ spite and malice soon retreat As Nature performs yet another feat.

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Rachel

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Chloe Mintel

Drawn entirely in graphite, this piece received a regional Gold Key from the Scholastic Art Awards.

Crumple, Crush, Fold Cat Hollister

Artist draws self-portrait using ebony pencil.

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Pajaro de Fuego Lauren Long Shaped from clay, then glazed, this sculpture has a variety of colors.

Afternoon Utopia David Torres This acrylic painting was digitally altered to give the sky its texture.

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Forever Erin Watson Forever is never with a single kiss of eternity.

It drives sweet opposition to Those who cannot handle patience.

It contains the imagination of those who Live without limits and always picture future.

It thrives in those who are excited to live in Creation and the imaginative persuasion that Connects reality to the dream world of sleep.

But with the limits of tomorrow and the Complications of our time and age, Forever is limited within itself.

Masking imagination Behind bars of Insanity.

But Insanity Behind bars of Masked imagination Limits forever within itself And complicates our time and age.

Limiting tomorrow and causing broken Connection between reality and our dreams.

But with imaginative persuasion and creation, Those who are excited to live their lives thrive.

And without limits and always picturing futures The imagination of people becomes contained.

And those who cannot handle patience Are driven to sweet opposition, The single kiss of eternity, never short of forever.

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Babcia* Brenna Buckley You always were “tough as nails,� old woman, But you wore that smile a million times.

Like a bird, you would hum in the kitchen, And your voice was a blend of songs whose rhymes Would rock me to sleep in your secure arms.

You would run around with me, head thrown back In laughter while I clung to your forearms.

But time seized you and began to attack: Your back bent and your feet were not steady.

You, a candle whose flame was flickering Could only sit as if restrained all day, Your eyes like a light bulb slowly dimming.

Now you lie with flowers under a tree, But you soar like a bird, your soul now free.

* Babcia is Polish for grandmother.

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The Things They Carried Christina Mancini

This sketch was drawn using pen and ink.

Crumpled, Crushed, Twisted William Fenton

This sketch was done using ebony pencil, creating the contrast of light and dark spaces.

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License Plate Hunter Reeves 14

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This piece was created with a collage of magazine images covered in the white Nevr-Dull.

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Hands

Rachel Mintel This piece was drawn with pen and ink.

Person-Plane Rachel Mintel

This image was made using a process called batik. The white portions are completed through a wax dripping process.

Once dried, the whole piece is dipped in ink.

The wax is removed to reveal the final product.

The piece received an honorable mention from the regional Scholastic Art Awards.

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A Candle Catherine Amos

A Candle is not but A long waxen stick, A thick, sturdy base.

On top, a small wick.

It can say no kind word, Cannot fix what has failed; No kiss from a mother, No cure for the ailed.

Yet the flame of a candle Can offer such hope To the hearts of thousands Who manage to cope.

To the heart of a mother Who’s lost her young one, To the soul of a man Whose love is undone.

And when the candle’s burnt through, And they find it at its end, There’s not loss of that hope, Simply love that ascends.

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A Woman Named Narcissa Natalie Freeman

The house still cold in the silent morning, Sounds pierce the stillness. The first sunrays slice The mirror she gazes into. Adorning Her blank easel, her veiny lids blink twice.

She reaches for a brush, the bristles caked With concealer. Powder tickles her nose.

She dabs rouge on her sharp cheekbones, warmth faked, The pigment dying her skin a deep rose.

She coats her spider lashes midnight black, Creating a thick web to trap her prey.

She combs corn-silk hair running down her back, Then pats on the sweet scent of a bouquet.

But no makeup covers of what she’s made: Just vain ideals not meant to be displayed.

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Costumes

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Cat Hollister

The artist used bright watercolors to fill in her playful pen and ink characters.

Sky Ground Water Hunter Davis

The photographer captured the tree’s refection in a muddy pool.

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Rose’s Heat Stephanie Whitecross

Rose’s eyes snap open, the last essence of the dream fading entirely too fast. She feels the almost tangible, heated gravity seeping away from her…from her wrists…her palms, and as she feels it just about to leave her fingertips, she tries desperately to grasp at the gentle sting that she was completely enveloped in only moments ago. Before she even realizes, she jumps out of bed, something she immediately regrets. She rushes back into the pile of blankets that make up the only heater she has anymore. When Rose’s mother left her and her father, it seemed like she took everything: the money, the happiness, and the heat—Rose’s heat. After all, Rose learned it all from her mother. She was the one who Rose got it from.

It’s simple genetics: if one of your parents is a Gift Bearer, then the child will be as well. Rose had all the same powers as her mother, but Rose also had something else— something the other Gift Bearers didn’t quite understand. Yes, she had the standard control over the growth of the nature around her, but the thing the others couldn’t explain was how simple it was to her, and how inclusive. Not only did plants and flowers grow or decay at her command, but trees, too—great, old, grandfather trees—and animals, and soil, and rocks. Everything was at her hands. But in order for any of the Gift Bearers to have power, including Rose, the whole council had to live relatively close to each other, as if to feed on the power of each other. When Rose reached seventeen, when her powers were meant to stop growing and level out, they continued to grow. The council feared she would grow so strong they would have no power at all. In light of this, the council, Rose’s mother included, left the quiet town hoping Rose’s powers would fade away—which, after only a few days, they did. Now, two months after their abandonment, dreams are the only place Rose can go to feel her power, her natural strength, her heat.

The artificial heat the blankets provide is nothing compared to the real burn of the sun baking into her pores. The sun was where all the natural energy came from to fuel the power of the Gift Bearers, but the Bearers also attracted the sun, turning even the Olympic Peninsula into a sun-drenched oasis—when the council left, it snowed and snowed for days without end.

With each day it snowed, Rose gave up the hope of ever getting her power back.

She longed for the steady glow of sunshine on her face. Memories overtaking her, she throws off the blankets and exchanges them for her new-to-her-but-used winter coat that she never had needed until recently. She shoves her sock-covered feet into the first pair of shoes she 20

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could find and automatically goes to the ultimate threshold of her sadness: the back door, known for her whole life as the gateway to her haven, the gateway to the golden embrace of the sun. Now, looking out into the gray gloom, Rose tries to imagine feeling her power and bringing up the sun to shine just for her. As many nights before, she raises her hand to the rust-worn latch of the sliding door. She takes a deep breath. “This is the night,” she thinks to herself, craving to hear the sticky crack of the door she knew so well as a child.

For the first time in what seems like ages, Rose opens the door. She doesn’t know why tonight, but something about her dream pushes her outside into the almost immediate forest surrounding her house. The deafening silence is almost too much for her when she remembers the bustle of sounds that used to be the soundtrack to her life. Her hands ache to feel the tangible glow that built with every moment she used her power. With each step the ache worsens and the sadness grows, so she stops and looks down at the small rocks next to their mother stone. She raises her hand over the sibling rocks, like she would have in the old days, but something seems to click—maybe the dream that brought her out here was playing tricks on her mind or maybe she was feeling the heat, her heat, originating from her palms and almost hovering on her fingertips. She knows if this is her power coming back, an empty hand waving wouldn’t be enough to roust the embedded power deep inside her. “Move,” she speaks just above a whisper to the lifeless rocks mocking her whispered desperation.

“Fine then, I knew you were too scared,” she challenges, and her heart stops when she saw the baby stone hop three inches in the air, flip, and plop right back down. She was so happy she couldn’t remember if she was holding her breath or hyperventilating. She couldn’t let it stop there: “Ha, so you’re just going to let the youngest have all the fun.” Before the words even left her mouth, her hands were set ablaze with the sweet sting of her heat, just as she remembered it. There was no turning back now. She wasn’t going to stop until she was caressing the sunlight. Just as she raised her hands, the small family below her followed.

“Very good, I’m impressed,” she awards the solid family, now flying everywhere. The snow around her starts to melt, and Rose’s smile grows. “Alright, it’s now or never,” she says quietly to herself. “Take me higher,” she tells her new friends. One by one the rocks start to form a makeshift throne, with mother stone as the cushion and the siblings flying around her to support the impending flight. Rose feels her feet leave the ground, unable to tell if it’s rocks or the pure, white-hot happiness she feels deep inside. The rocks stop just above the now swaying treetops. She knows what she wants and no longer fears she doesn’t have the power. She lifts her hand to the sky and starts to wipe away the clouds. Once her hand is full, she throws the snow and overcast far down to the forest floor. She beams, for now she is face to face with her power, her sunrise, her heat.

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Flamingo Jack Holgado One bird many have heard achieves utmost splendor unlike the ostrich, a contender Peace Poise Balanced through noise Flamingoes have the ability To Maintain Unwavering Stability Being different is the price they pay for you can spot them from a mile away Flamingoes are unique for they possess that hue Which sets them apart from animals colored too This Born gift pink from many nature would sheds think, but in fact they are white until they satisfy light their appetite.

of individuality which pleases the sight

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D.C.

Chloe Mintel The artist used a drypoint ink process to create this print. The image is carved into plexiglass and covered in ink which is then wiped off. The ink left in the cracks is pressed onto paper to create a print of the image. This piece won a regional Gold Key from the Scholastic Art Awards.

Glenwood Avenue David Torres This artist also used a drypoint process to complete this piece.

It received a regional silver key from the Scholastic Art Awards.

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Bugling Impression Blair Torres

This piece uses construction paper overlaid on newspaper to contrast the artist’s colored pencil drawing. It received honorable mention in the Congressional Art Competition.

Iguana Sammy Bratzke

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This sketch of a reptile was drawn with pen and ink; the red color was added using colored pencil.

A Gift and a Curse

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Catherine Wagner Springing, sprightly, salty summer breezes Dance carefree down the path and meet a rose, Whose fair beauty every day increases As summer nurtures, and it grows and grows.

Soon, swirling, circling, spinning, autumn gusts Twirl tunnels down the path in search of charm, But only find a shell, a brown-as-dust, Brittle faรงade of the fair rose disarmed.

Now whistling, roaring, howling, winter gales Storm down the path, craving tragic chaos.

Paper petals whisper, blackened stem fails: The withered rose falls, mourning sadness, loss.

For everything, no matter how lovely, Must defer to Time, or learn its folly.

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Empty Paper Daniel Miles Blue rows and a red column Stare back at me as my world plays out.

A medium from my world to others— An open canvas.

A safe haven for The free expression Of anger, guilt, and rage Written by shaking hand, Perused by unseeing eye.

Thoughts unexplained And emotions unexplored Find solace in the neatly lined Paper that lies in my notebook.

Resilient Sea Turtles Samuel Raines Torturous tides tax Tranquil turtles, turning and Tumbling them through time.

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Nature’s Crown Emmary Williams

This headpiece is compiled with pieces taken from nature.

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A Poem for a Girl Jess Schmitz

Cheekbones they wear like crowns with pride, accessorized with collarbones.

She starts to hide in shapeless shirts, her hollow stomach moans.

Weighted eyelids, she longs to eat but, fearing what’s inside The shiny wrapper, to her the gym seems safer.

The blood red blinking numbers rise with every stride On the treadmill. She imagines the other Numbers falling as fast as these ones rise.

And those three digits keep her moving.

Long forgotten faces notice Her shrinking, shrinking physique.

She wakes us swathed in Plastic ribbons, observed By white-coated men, While one bed over A skinny girl Admires Samantha’s Collar Bone.

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