The Repeater | 2023-24

Note from the Editors “Nature is not only all that is visible to the eye... it also includes the inner pictures of the soul.”

-Edvard Munch

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We, the staff of The Repeater, are delighted to bring you this magazine, the work it contains, and the creativity it represents. We would like to take this space to thank everyone who made submissions and to acknowledge that this edition would not be possible without you.

It is our mission to reproduce the words, thoughts, and visions of the students of Cardinal Gibbons. We are honored to publish this magazine which acts as the medium for the creativity of our student body so that it can be shared both in and outside of our community. The works within this edition serve as a reminder that art is all around us and is only waiting to be created.

This year, we organized The Repeater around a theme of change, memory, and new beginnings. As we moved through the school year, we collected submissions depicting the greatest representation of change nature has to offer: the four seasons. We have created an edition that follows the change seen both throughout the natural world as well as throughout the lives of our artists. It was our goal to represent the seasons and their meaning with this edition: Leaves of Time.

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Staff President: Katherine Peevey Vice President: Amelie Flagler Secretary: Maggie Kozlowski Media Officer: Cy Sagan Art Liaison: Mei Cheng Creative Consult: Matthew Bridgers Advisor: Ms. Lauren Owen

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Cover Art by Amelia Collins

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The Repeater Volume 27

2023-2024

Table of Contents “Leaves of Time” Amelie Flagler- 6

Fall “Wanting Anywhere Elsewhere” AJ Gebhardt- 7 “Better” Marley Wilson- 8 “Dead Leaves” Sophia Kelly- 9 “Fallen Soldier” Oscar Budd- 9 “Need to Ask” Adelyn Gleichauf- 10 “Falling” Genesis Zamora- 11 “Nature pt. 1” Kaitlyn Perez- 11 “As Seasons Change” Anonymous- 12

Winter “Comfort” Mei Cheng- 13 “Seasons” Mary Lee- 14 “Daphne” Martha Nichols- 15 “Winter Wonders” Miller Kuss- 16 “Winter’s Jest” Meghan Carraher- 16 “Isopod” Milly Collins- 17 “The Boy Who Caught a Fallen Star” Katherine Leonte- 18 “Overentangled” Alex Kwak- 19 “Long Ride Home” Oscar Budd- 19

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Spring “Timeless Tranquility” Emma Aldredge- 20 “Seasons of Perspective” Maria Feldpausch- 21 “Blossoms of Spring” Ryder Lamar- 22 “Dino Crew” Megan Tylka- 23 “Sunrise Sunset” Kaylee Fitzsimmons- 24 “Nature pt. 2” Kaitlyn Perez- 25 “The Game” Jack King- 25 “Lyrical Bless” Martha Nichols- 26

Summer “Missing Summer” Nya Folk- 27 “Seasons of Time” Olivia McGee- 28 “Summer Nights” Jack Adkins- 29 “Moon Line” Oscar Budd- 29 “Starfield” Oscar Budd- 30 “To the Dog in the Sky” Dylan Beck- 30 “The Cages We Keep” Kaylee Fitzsimmons- 31 “4:34 am” Nya Folk- 32 “Sundown” Oscar Budd- 33

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The Leaves of Time Amelie Flagler The Leaves of Time are an amber rust, Auburn, crimson in every gust, Sepia hues dance in the breeze, Maroon decor on cocoa trees.

Earlier on, the sun lays down, A litter of acorns across the ground, The air takes on a briskly chill, An apple pie cools on the windowsill.

Some days appear in misty fogs, Brilliant hazes on creaky logs, Vivid robins cruise through the skies, Filling the quiet with song-like cries.

Weeks pass by; leaves start to crisp, Ice spirals in frosty wisps, The aroma of fragrant pumpkin spice Soon becomes the chill of ice.

I glance outside; the branch is bare, The scarlet and bronze no longer there, I remember them now, gone with the dust, The Leaves of Time were an amber rust.

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Fall Wanting Anywhere Elsewhere AJ Gebhardt

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Better Marley Wilson The quarter moon, white as a dove on the black, pockmarked horizon, watches the world unmoving from its perch in the clouds. Pinpricks of lights scaith the sky around it, falling like glitter around my eyes. Below my feet, fallen leaves crunch to my every movement. They smell of long-lost rains and yearning nostalgia. I see not the trees around me, their once brilliant colors cloaked by the weight of night on their bows. I can only hear the sway of their branches, rustling and creaking against the would-be silence of the forest. In protest, a far-off owl coos morosely. It, too, is dreaming of some other time.

A chill catches the air, sending my hair up behind me in twists and curls against its will. It reminds me of a time in which I would have been happy to let myself float through the world unburdened by my differences and problems. However, that time is past. I pull up the hood of my coat, once again hiding myself. It is better this way; I have learned. Better I keep that hood up, snug and tied tight underneath my chin.

I don't know how long it has been since I have wandered the depths of the woods as I do tonight. I did, once, before I had changed, before I grew up. I was only a child then, unrestrained and wild. I had brought a boy with me, hadn't I? A sad smile crosses my face as I remember the unruly caramel brown hair, the pale gray eyes wide with curiosity. He had been like me, thirsting for knowledge and adventure. Unsatisfied by the world. We'd chased the dusk with sticks as swords like it was a grand shadowy beast. We never did catch it.

I no longer run through the towering oaks and birches, but rather observe them with a tentative glance. I walk past them, still, barely lifting my head in reverence to them. It is better this way, quiet and unassuming. I don't disturb them anymore with my clambering, heavy footsteps. Rather, I trudge softly past them as a sophisticated spectator. They prefer it this way.

A stray leaf, weather-worn and beaten, makes its way from the limbs above. It spirals towards the ground, and something leads me to reach out and catch it. I rub my cold, dry thumbs over the veins, tracing their story into my mind. A story that will be no more once it hits the ground. When I was young, I would have sheltered the precious thing in my pocket, taken it home, saved it. Perhaps I would have nestled it into the waves of my hair, claimed it a natural vintage bow. However, those times are gone. I inhale sharply and drop the leaf to the ground. It is where it belongs now.

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Dead Leaves Sophia Kelly Dead leaves falling through the frozen branches While walking through the beaten-down path Remembering past winters Time passed so quickly We’ve grown, all of us Change came with every season New branches and new leaves New clothes and new friends It was sad to see the old ones go Nevertheless, without change, how will we grow?

Without new branches and new leaves, trees are simply stumps Without new clothes and new friends, humans are simply the same The dead leaves remind us of growth Of loss Of change Thank you for all the past memories And thank you for all of the ones to come

Fallen Soldier Oscar Budd

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Need to Ask Adelyn Gleichauf

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Falling Genesis Zamora They always say to be careful not to fall, but falling can't always be helped, like falling in love. Falling in love with the end of hot summer suns. Falling in love with the start of cold red-nosed bunny faces. Falling in love with the steam of your coffee in chilly weather. Falling in love with the way your dog looks up at you in the early mornings. Falling in love with the way your fuzzy socks wrap around your feet.

Falling in love with the laugh of the boy you met in October. Falling in love with talking to someone until 3:33 a.m. Falling in love with the warmth of your lover sitting right next to you. Falling in love with the transition of blinding flowers to dancing leaves. I believe Autumn is also known as “Fall” because this is the month where most begin to “fall” in love. They say to be careful not to fall, but sometimes it’s okay to just step forward; you might just end up like an Autumn leaf . . . falling.

Nature pt. 1 Kaitlyn Perez

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As Seasons Change Anonymous Change. That endless wheel of time that keeps turning no matter how hard you try to stop it or slow it down. He could feel it in the air now, the slight chill biting at his face, causing him to pull his flannel jacket closer around himself. The leaves were starting to change, and the musty smell of fall filled the air. Each day was shorter than the last, and it gave him the feeling that time was running out. Always running out. Soon they would pour down the street in their costumes and masks, demanding candy and enjoying ghost stories.

Stories like his own. The boy brought his hand up to his face and watched his pale skin flicker and fade again. It had all felt so real. He was getting better at forming a visible body with his energy. For the first time since his death, he could really feel fall, the season he was drawn to the most. He sighed and let the cool air blow the rest of his flickering apparition away and watched the kids at the school.

Highschool: he’d hated it when he was alive, but what he would give to go back now. He turned away from the memories and set his gaze on the stone in front of him, which had only a name and a date. A name and a date he knew all too well…

Aaron Jones 1970-1986

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Winter Comfort Mei Cheng

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Seasons Mary Lee Time goes as water flows Seasons fly by fast as people's feelings change Freezing wind greets me with a cold look while the warm spring greets me with a smile and flowers The warm breeze and the spring wind goes away The blazing sun ray appears telling spring to leave The hot sun calls for people to play at the beach and children to get out of school Many people go on a hunt for ice cream while others run and feel the warm sand near the windy beach The hot summer calls for the cool autumn wind where fall’s greeting tags along Fall brings Halloween where candies and sweets flourish Children getting out the Halloween spirit by dressing up with costumes Fall gives the blessing of food on Thanksgiving The pumpkin spice and cinnamon scent plummeting many houses The freezing winter chasing away Fall Bringing its holiday season with its snowy weather People lighting up their mistletoe candles Bakers cooking up their favorite Christmas pastries Every house decorating with holiday lights and Christmas trees Families gather around the tree with beautiful shiny ornaments radiating their glow from the Christmas tree In the end of the year, when the cold midnight brings the flashy fireworks splashing the sky with neon colors Everyone on the Earth celebrating Happy New Year where we anticipate the start of the seasons all over again!

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Daphne Martha Nichols

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Winter Wonders Miller Kuss The most wonderful time of the year People always full of cheer Snow falling lightly on the ground Covering everything around

Baking cookies all day long Always singing a joyous song Hanging garland on the tree Christmas Day is sure to please

Christmas carols fill the air Frosty snow in your hair Celebrating love and peace Quickly go grab your fleece

Leave cookies near the fireplace Santa will come to eat them without a trace Holiday parties to attend I hope the holidays never end

Family gathered all around People all over the town Santa Claus and his reindeer squad Trust me, he is no fraud

Winter’s Jest Meghan Carraher

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Isopod Milly Collins

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The Boy Who Caught a Fallen Star Katherine Leonte “Alright, I’ll tell you all the story.”

The man huffed a laugh as the children halted in their tracks and scrambled to sit beside the roaring fire.

“But we must wait until all of the stars are out, for it is a favorite of theirs to hear.”

The man’s eyes twinkled with mischief and the children hushed although the ambience of the night crept in, the chirping of camouflaged crickets and the snapping and crackling fire, which filled overeager faces with a rosy glow.

The astonished boy stepped out of the meadow, blissfully unaware of the brand on his soul, a tether between him and the star, amplifying his strength, endurance, and agility.

A command was written in his mind as if he had been born with the knowledge to never let the shadows in and be the unfailing light in the darkness, but never to imagine or even consider that he might be a god, else they would let the darkness devour him.

There was a boy who caught a fallen star and as it descended, meandering down, the cosmos shuddered, the earth itself shaking underfoot, jagged cracks snaking along the bed of the howling river.

The stars flickered out and blazed even fiercer, shoving the clouds aside to get a better look.

Even the sun opened its eyes sleepily to peer down at the sight, and the planets crept as close as they dared.”

“The boy marveled at his treasure and cradled it close to his racing heart, fire scorching onto his skin and charring his clothing.

But stars cannot linger on the earth and must return to seal their constellation, fighting back the endless void that threatens to crawl in and crush each fragile star to ashes.

The boy grew into a man, marked with stardust on his soul and began to wield a crescent blade, forged from his very own hands, the hilt permanently stained with his stardust.

The blade glowed with the soft radiance of moonlight and the harsh ardence of the molten sun.

The champion of the celestials, rebirthed from the stars.

The protector of the earth, driving back the persistent darkness, which creeps into every crevice and crack of the earth, infecting nature itself with its bite and threatening to extinguish all that is alive.

“And so we tell the stories.”

The man ruffled one of the sleepy children’s curls, tilting his head back to study the sky.

“And if you look up into the sky, search for a jagged line of stars.”

He pointed up at a constellation that seemed to grow brighter than all of the others in that moment.

“There is the warrior with the radiant blade and stained hands, forever subduing the void, keeping it from the earth.”

So the star dashed out into the sky without a backward glance and the boy was left with a weight on his shoulders and a grace that he could not understand.

His fingertips were brushed with metallic stardust, gleaming in silvery and bronze hues which pierced through the muted light as the dawn painted pastels across the sky.

It remained on his palms, as thick as scales, and left patches of stardust on all that he touched, but like a spark of hope, never died out, but shed once a month as the moon filled, curling into bronze and silver shavings.

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Over Entangled Alex Kwak

Long Ride Home Oscar Budd

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Spring Timeless Tranquility Emma Aldredge

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Seasons of Perspective Maria Feldpausch Perspective is an intricate thing.

One may see the same element and perceive it differently.

The seasons can be likened in this manner.

Spring is thought to be the season of rebirth, for in its very nature is embedded the events of vegetation blooming and new beginnings.

Animals awaken from the bleak, dormant shroud of winter into this apparently exuberant period.

Contrastingly, another may see it is as a time of anticipation.

Summer has not yet arrived and the once snow-kissed world is melting away.

Autumn is a unique season.

The leaves that had survived the changing of the previous periods of heat and humidity, droughts and gales, are now bearing the effects of time.

One could cast a melancholy glance their way.

They are a sign of another season ending, a new one beginning.

However, those same leaves can bring innocent delight as one acknowledges the foliage as a thing of sheer beauty.

The leaves are painted with streaks of orange the color of fiery copper and red the color of polished stones of ruby.

The way they appear to dance in the wind as they delicately glide off the branches of the trees can be a sight of wonder.

It is very well to distinguish the seasons differently.

In all their complexity it is in one’s nature to view it as such.

Though I like to believe that if we took some time to reflect on such things and appreciate some of the tokens of beauty that can be found in the world around us, maybe our own mindsets can change to better accommodate the presence of positivity.

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Blossoms of Spring: A Sakura’s Meaning Ryder Lamar Beneath the sky so blue and clear, Spring whispers softly in the ear.

Sakura blossoms, pink and bright, Paint the day in pure delight.

Amidst the branches, a soft embrace, A blush of pink, a gentle grace.

Petals falling, light as air, Dance around without a care.

Petals like paper, soft and light, A spark of pink, a pure delight.

They dance on breezes, a fleeting trance, A symphony of beauty, a sweet romance.

In gardens brightened with blossoms fair, The sakura weaves dreams in the air.

Each petal, a note in a silent song, A melody of joy, where hearts belong.

Under the sakura, moments unfold, Stories untold, in petals enfold.

Stories of happiness, carried on the wind, A tale of beginnings, where dreams begin.

Whispers of love in petals, so sweet, A tale of peace, where lives may meet.

Underneath the blooming tree, A symbol of life and harmony.

So in the springtime's fleeting hours, Sakura blooms like gentle flowers.

A lesson learned, so clear and true, Life's beauty is in moments, too.

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Dino Crew Megan Tylka

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Sunrise Sunset Kaylee Fitzsimmons

-Impression, Sunrise, Claude Monet (1872, oil on canvas, Musée Marmottan, Paris)

Sunrise looks like sunset in the minds of those old sailors Who awoke before the city still long basking in the starlight glow Disappearing into heaven as it meets the start of morning As the sun ascends like souls who once lived sacrificial lives.

Now they rest upon a boat built by the men of France Whose crinkled eyes and cracking palms only knew the task at hand To give the might of God to man and tame the lawless sea A power resting solely in the wood beneath their feet.

In visions blurred by the whistles and whirs of smoke and steam pushed out to sea A curtain is drawn back baring for the rest of the world a look into the rest of time With smokestacks tracing the tips of the sky in wispy strands of white A sky following the sunrise slightly lagging ever behind.

Paddles of wood stab into peculiar waters that cannot decide what shade of green to be Perhaps parts of it are fighting to remain the color of its youth Simpler times when the water had nothing to hide Now secrets and sewage swallow the wooden ore as the old sailors row Roots and branches masked as floating maps that lead to home Drift further from the motherland that rests beneath a cloud of heavy steam As if to tell old sailors to chase the sunset long replaced by morning gleam And return to a time when the water wasn't all those shades of green

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Nature pt. 2 Kaitlyn Perez

The Game Jack King Number four stands there, waiting on the base for the hard ball to strike his waiting bat. He pauses and swings, and the ball leaves with a “ding!” It’s a hit to a waiting fielder’s mitt. Four runs, but to no avail. The shortstop makes the catch.

You’ll grow old with your team, be their strong, solid base, and protect them like gold. If that means getting hit, let the ball strike your skin, and run to first as if you just got a hit. The stadium will erupt if you score a few runs, and the pride will go straight to your cranium. Home base will get muddied by the dirt on your shoe, and you’ll get the ball which you hit, to take home, and store away with a catch.

That’s what baseball is all about: winning the game with your bat.

That’s how it goes, an endless series of catch and throw. Players fail or succeed, and teams base their value off that alone. Each player runs from one team to the next, taking their wooden bat with them, vexed. They provide power to swing after swing, trying to hit, all in an effort to make the crowd sing for them and the ball.

There’s a powerful feeling that can’t be beat: being up at bat. Your insides are turning, stomach filled with flies, with the desire to get a hit, yet there’s an even deeper craving that it won’t turn to a catch. You’ll need to be water, cool as it runs through your hands, ready to change your swing with the ball. All that emotion to stand on a base.

The keys to the sport are within the round ball under a blanket of rough cotton threads. If it’s a catch, you sulk back to the dugout, bat still in hand. So get a hit and make the difficult trek to first, a white base on the dirt. Spread your wings and soar like a quick, agile bat, and round second, third, then home to get runs after runs. Do well enough and earn enough runs, and you’ll be picked up out of the dirt. You’ll be handed a ball, given a fresh wooden bat, and told to make catch after catch.

The bat earns you those coveted hits that players catch to stop you from racing to the next base, and it’s all to score a couple of runs. It’s a special sport, baseball.

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Lyrical Bliss Martha Nichols

-True Scale: 4' by 7', Acrylic on Canvas

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Summer Missing Summer Nya Folk

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Seasons of Time Olivia McGee Time is an elusive little thing, determining so many of life’s choices in secrecy.

It brings Spring, with its many young yellow-green leaves and new beginnings.

However, it is the source of blissful illusions and promises; assuring an infinite clock that only ticks when we need it to.

But life, in reality, isn’t full of time; yet still so many take it for granted rather than making their only life count.

Their youth poisons them in a way, creating naivete to the reality of how quickly life flies by.

They only focus on the new yellow-green Spring leaves instead of the falling, aging leaves of Autumn not too far ahead.

Autumn brings mature, yet beautiful times filled of the relatable nostalgia it contains.

Bittersweet memories of the exciting youth of Spring, and the remembrance of the once-innocent hope that everything would always stay the same.

It carries within it a crisp, balanced wind, whispering about what used to be long ago; and displaying conflicting, yet artistic examples of how the time has passed.

The once-young, soft leaves now have bright, bold colors that shine a delicate spotlight on the beauty of age; before the leaves of change fall to their final resting place on the forest floor.

Autumn is a reflective time, reminding mortals that time is an elusive little thing.

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Summer Nights Jack Adkins In the heart of summer’s vibrant reign, Awakens a world of sunlit domain.

Fields dressed in golden attire, Nature’s canvas, a masterpiece entire.

The morning sky, a canvas of blue, Kissed by the sun’s awakening hue.

Birds paint melodies in the endless sky, As soft melodies in the treetops sigh.

A symphony of life, buzzing and alive, In the meadows, where wildflowers thrive.

Butterflies dance, bees tango in a spin, As each flower petal, tells a story within.

Children's laughter fills the warm air, Their joy and wonder, beyond compare.

Sandcastles rise by the beach shore, As crashing waves sing tales of yore.

There is nothing quite like the the summer nights, Not a worry in mind, not even a fright.

And to this we reminisce on summer nights.

Moon Line Oscar Budd

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Starfield Oscar Budd

To the Dog in the Sky Dylan Beck When a boy loses his dog, With it he loses his smile And his joy.

There’s no more throwing sticks And playing fetch, Or cleaning pawprints.

There’s no more dog on the couch, And in the boy’s bed, Or lying on the floor.

His friend won’t be under the table Or at the door waiting for him.

No more barking at cars Or people or squirrels, There are no more barks at all.

Now in his backyard he sits, Staring up into the night At the great dog in the sky.

He feels comforted that Every boy before him who Missed their dog Saw the same stars.

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The Cages We Keep Kaylee Fitzsimmons When she awakes, she is a bird And as she gracelessly runs off the cliff she starts to fly And feels the rushing wind on her reddened cheeks as she smiles And she finally gets to know what clouds feel like.

She flips upside down, just to test the limits of her newly realized powers And in the middle of the sky she seeks an endpoint Twisting around and holding her breath simply to see what it will take to fall Until she comes to the realization that she can’t fall.

She is destined to fly forever and ever until the end of time when the clouds finally sink And even then she will still be flying, unable to come down with them And it will be dark and quiet around her, which reminds her too much of home to be comforting She is an astronaut now, and this home is more void than even the emptiest promises of the cliff.

Eventually she gets lonely, because she is the only bird in the whole world Who chose to run off the cliff in the first place Who closed her eyes and opened her mouth to say “no” To the social norms and societal pressures that pushed her towards the cliff in the first place Gravity doesn’t work on her like it does for the rest of them on the cliff Who seem to be there just so they can say they almost jumped, almost tried to fly As if that notion alone would be enough to defy society just a little Serving as an elusive representation of the words “you don’t own me.”

And yet their contempt for the way the world works is nothing Compared to their concern for being alone, being an outcast.

And while the sky is clear and colorful, it is also empty, unlike the Crowded cliff filled with people who refuse to take loneliness as a side effect of flight.

So they pretend to be filled with revolutionary rage In hopes their stony leaders and social constructors haven't seen the likes of Spartacus But they directed Spartacus And know the hunger for flight is illusory and can be sated with pills and pop culture Once there was a girl that flew so high and so far, she touched the sun While everyone else watched from the ground in fits of restlessness The girl wished she could fall The world wished it could fly But they were all just birds, forever locked in the cages of their impossible dreams.

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4:34 am Nya Folk

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Sundown Oscar Budd

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