Epic Spring 2013

epic

Letter from the Editors

“I love reading; it’s a great way to avoid writing.”

--Tony Kushner

Throughout this year, you have all showcased your talents through a multitude of mediums, from the classroom to the sports field, the stage to the art studio, and everywhere else. The mission statement of epic is: “To provide an opportunity for every member of the community to share their artistic talents and endeavors.” To us, the measure of a successful year is not necessarily in receiving a great quantity of submissions, but receiving submissions from an array of students. Realizing the inherent risk and hesitation associated with submitting or performing, we are especially touched by all of your work this year. Without your generosity, courage, and innovation, there would be no epic.

Creating the magazine and events, like the coffeehouse, is the best we can do to try and fully express our gratitude by creating a forum for your talents to be fostered, developed, and discovered. Our true hope is not to focus on the accomplishments of one year, but to perpetually build.

Build so that epic each succeeding year will enjoy more success and that the talent, which constitutes epic, will continue to grow.

As always, we have a number of people to thank. First, to our staff.

While your email accounts may be flooded, your X periods and a few Saturdays lost, we hope you enjoy and take as much pride in epic as we do as you all are truly a vital key to its creation and existence. We also must thank our faculty advisor, Asha. Like a parent, we may not un d e r s t a n d your actions in the moment, but we are always grateful in hindsight. Of course, we also extend our deepest gratitude to all who have submitted or performed this year. Beyond submitting and performing, being a supportive member and audience is every bit as important as the works themselves are, so for that we thank every member of this school. A massive thank you to our amazing publisher Joe, for taking our ideas and figuring a way to make them reality.

As the senior staff of epic leaves Kingswood, we take solace in knowing we are leaving the club in the hands of a very passionate and creative group who will proudly continue the tradition of epic. Once again, we extend our most sincere appreciation, and we hope you enjoy the magazine!

Sincerely your Editors, Ben & Ruthie

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The Staff:

Table of Contents

Faculty Advisor: Asha Appel Editors: Eva Stys Caley Henderson Brooke Goldsmith Crystal Abbate Claudia Udolf Naomi Letourneau Catherine Eatherton Emma Waldman Hope Kim Taylor Kennedy Katherine Gianni Elana Colangelo Allie Kyff Molly Papermaster Rachel Paley Grace Jarmoc Mary Lessard Julia Bayer Hailey Guyette Max Bash Editors-in-Chief: Ruthie Dannehy & Ben Isenberg

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Cole Adams “Peristalsis” Catherine Eatherton “Eye” Hope Kim “Lápiz Lazuli” Amanda Loughran “Bumbling Adventure” James DeMorro “Playing with Promises of Freedom and Dreams of Peace” Jenna Mick “Cigarette” Rachel Paley “Love in a Cup” Naomi Letourneau “I Wish You Were” Emily Lowit “Life in a Nutshell” Ned Meade “Anne V” Molly Papermaster “No More Lullabies” Lindsey Paszczuk “One Thing Better” Natalie Goldstein “Sailing at Sunset” Natasha Wolman “Love Poem” Emma Waldman “Sunset & Nature” Allie Kyff “I’ll Find a Way to keep Your Smiles & Kisses” Jack Beckerman “Caddie” Julia Bayer “Lookout” Sarah Gianni “Trees are like Mothers” Taylor Kennedy “From the Woods” Michael Scappaticci “Bullet to the Head” Kali Lawrence “Playground” Andrew Sikora “Pressure” Brooke Goldsmith “All Smiles” Taelor Scott “Turtlenecks” Callie Miles “Facebook: The End of the World as We Know It” Frank Bruno “Holly” Julia McGowan “Forrest Gump” Julia Bayer “Night in the Guay” Jack Sullivan “Canadian Border” Matt Kahn “Rust” Virginia Villa “The Idea” Max Bash “Bold Letters” Matt Guerrera “Dance Class” Lydia Bailey “Toe-mas” AJ Greene “My Riemann’s Sum” 4

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Table of Contents

Peristalsis Cole Adams ’15

Addie Waskowitz “Blacked Out” Thomas Wilson “The Tragedy of the Clocksmith” Peter Baczyk “Bob’s” Eva Stys “Anatomy” Keenan Line “Ode to My Calculus Textbook” Caley Henderson “Fish Eye” Sophie Pennoyer “Introduction to the College Process” Katherine Gianni “Sexiest Man in Asia” Molly Sullivan “Caring Too Much” Claire Halloran “Roaming the Roads” Ruthie Dannehy “I’m Standing in a Pile of Dirt” Anya Delventhal “Scorpions of the Mind” Cat Flaherty “Exorcism” Ben Sullivan “Scotty” Marissa Landino “Future Number Seven” Rachel Dietz “Studly Stare” Payton Krupp “Damn Girl” Thomas Fischer “A Chat” Emma Waldman “Self Portrait in Ink and Charcoal” Sophia Harrison “Bizarre” Max Bash “Bottled Up” Meghan Kennedy “Dreaming with Opened Eyes” Connor Keenan “Rusty Keys” Sam Wilsey “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” Addie Waskowitz “Words” Hailey Guyette “Pain” Phoebe Taylor “The Soundtrack of a Leaky Faucet” Claire Halloran “Stray” The Popcorn Story

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masticated my thoughts you noted “everything is lies” 1.) flour 2.) sugar 3.) blood of an angsty teenager it’s the three-step process, the one-two hopstep adolescent hopscotch i hate you because i love you stop trying to tan under streetlights, slate-eyed screams:::: […] you say it on the inside, i heard you say it on the inside you:::: “i don’t know you” you’re a plaster-person in a park throwing bread to ducks and i’m a dead goose feigning life [[poke my heart with a stick and see if it squirms]] (i am not a caterpillar) […] feeling sorry and then not so sorry at all [[[you stop that]]] i’m just a fools’ gold sycophant playing at professor. look at me::: a mouse you’re megafauna (((Darwin told me))) talk to me i talk to you ((not)) want to make you smile::::don’t want to make you frown […] (((((:::::none of anything’s much surprise::::)))) we put fake flowers on real graves and wonder why the world’s so hard to [[[[swallow]]]]

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Eye

Lápiz Lazuli

Catherine Eatherton ’14

Hope Kim ’14 blue hue point pave the way into my deepest (and darkest?) thoughts i need inspiration for perspiration, not vice versa the gears wind too quickly for the point to follow better sharpen it before the cartoon lightbulb dulls dulls? I think I meant ‘fades away,’ that sounds about right. writing is one thing, poetry is another you can’t force the gears to wind before they’re ready no clichés, no overdone metaphors be artful, be genuine be unafraid of the blank page put the point to paper and let Lápiz Lazuli guide the way

Bumbling Adventure Amanda Loughran ’15

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Cigarette

James DeMorro ’16

Jenna Mick ’18

Beautiful, Oh, beautiful snow, So brightly colored.

Sweet sounds of emotion, Fill the crisp Winter air.

Playing with promises of freedom, And dreams of peace.

Go ahead and Use my heart as your ash tray Take your burning words like cigarettes and singe every damn inch of it.

But when you are done at least tell me that you love me.

So I can dull the pain with the cool watery memory of those words.

Warm sun and cold bodies, By now winter is gone.

But the Spring rain has not given life back, To the things that have died in the cold months.

But we are still, Playing with promises of freedom, And dreams of peace.

2013 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize Recipient

Playing with Promises of Freedom and Dreams of Peace

Water has drenched through their clothes.

And the Summer thunder, Oh, isn’t it so sweet to hear that boom again?

It reminds me of that time we were playing in the snow, Playing with promises of freedom, And dreams of peace.

Now it’s Fall, Finally a season the describes what happened in that field, On that day.

Yes, Yes, That day they were shot, Out in that field, Playing with promises of freedom, And dreams of peace.

Were we too busy thinking about, The promises of freedom, And the dreams of peace?

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Love in a Cup

I Wish You Were

Rachel Paley ’15

Naomi Letourneau ’14

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2013 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize Recipient

I wish you were a book So that I could Flip through all of your pages While underlining all of my favorite parts And highlighting the sections I want to learn more about.

I could fold over my favorite pages And post-it note the ones I want to come back to.

I would tell all my friends about you And stay up all night reading your every word And every line Turning over all your pages You would even have that new book smell And I would get that feeling when I pick you up That I could never put you down.

I would keep you on my bookshelf by my bed And think of my favorite parts before I dream And imagine myself in your story I would read you again and again As if you were the only book I ever read.

I would read you to escape reality Because you would make me happy as I Fell in love with the words you chose Dancing gently across the page And onto my lips.

Life in a Nutshell

Anne V

Emily Lowit ’15

Ned Meade ’13

You start out a day of skiing in the lodge: protected, warm, safe.

But, to be able to soar you have to go outside into the cold: unprotected, exposed, vulnerable.

Once you’re outside, you’re already halfway there.

You already have the ticket to the top.

You ride your way up, keeping your eye on all the trail choices: what looks icy, which trails have good powder, which places are too crowded?

You reach the peak and look at the map, trying to decide which way to take.

Once you find the trail that has been calling your name, you turn towards it, start skating, and race full speed, exploring as you find your way down.

There’s a surprise around every corner, yet you keep flying through the clean, crisp air.

You’re racing yourself while racing the world, competing and improving with each movement.

In this state of pure concentration you are able to experience feelings of fear and perfection at the same time.

You are cold yet surprisingly warm.

You are alive.

You are infinite.

Yet, if you lose concentration for even a millisecond, you can crash.

It’s a yard sale.

And others might laugh, and yell “It’s a ten,” but you have to swallow your pride and get up, collect yourself, and start again.

Once you get up, you’re stronger.

You start again, better than before.

You push yourself harder, you’re more free, And you know that you can succeed, This was the right trail for you.

You fly full speed, exploring as you find your way, dodging trees and rocks as you go.

You realize that this path is far better than anything you could have dreamed, and you follow it.

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No More Lullabies

One Thing Better

Molly Papermaster ’14

Lindsey Paszczuk ’15

Maybe we realize we aren’t kids when the soundtrack that holds the melodies Mary had a Little Lamb, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and Row, Row, Row Your Boat gets lost underneath the passenger seat of the car.

Straighten your knees; suck in your stomach, Point your feet; be more flexible.

First we notice these mellifluous harmonies are a mechanism for parents to trick us to fall asleep.

But now we are too clever.

Next, we experiment with other types of music.

Some make us dance, cry, laugh.

The radio doesn’t play the soothing tones of our lullabies.

Instead we hear screaming, loud crashing of drums, or women’s voices so high they can break a champagne glass.

Agonize over the position of your feet, Forget to spot and end up getting dizzy, Forget to keep your body square, Forget to straighten your knees, Forget to pull up,

We might as well pack away the crib, stroller, binky, and prepare for hormones of being a teenager, stress of being a college student, joy of having kids of our own.

Soon we will be rocking out to Mozart, Bach and Beethoven in our rocking chairs.

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Never enough, never perfect, You must keep working.

Forget to smile.

One thing’s right, One thing’s better, At least you are satisfied with your feet.

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Sailing at Sunset

Love Poem

Natalie Goldstein ’14

Natasha Wolman ’14 Mon cher, viens voir ces ours jouer dans les bois.

Pendant que le soleil se couchait, Le mâle saute Au-dessus de la femelle, il ne la sursaute Pas, Il la plaque au sol, avec des forts émois.

Bientôt les ours, quand la lune se couche dans le ciel, Leur flamme meurt, mon amour, avec la saison d’hiver.

Vous devez la rattraper, l’amour va crever Avec les temps, donc fais quelque chose de démentiel.

Quel dommage que la nature arête la passion Des amants! Pourquoi n’est-il rien de compromission?

Vous devez saisir la balle au bond maintenant!

Le mâle lâche sa femelle quand le temps arrive pour L’adieu. Vous utilisez votre jeuneuse brillante!

Oh, la vie est vaine sans le désir ou l’amour!

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Sunset & Nature

Caddie

Emma Waldman ’14

Jack Beckerman ’15 In the car, my dad tells me about golf: “It’s an endless tragedy with the occasional miracle, followed by a beer.

It’s life.

It’s love, when married to an Irish woman.

Competition is great with friends, Unless they are better then you.

In golf, you yell fore, shoot six, and write down five.

It’s a good walk spoiled.

It’s heart breaking, unfair, and rough, all wrapped in failure.

It’s hitting the perfect 6 iron, then realizing you only needed a 7.

Golf is the only sport where no matter how bad you play one day, You can always play worse the next.

But we never fail to come back to it.”

Right now, I want to tell him something.

Right now, I want to give my opinion.

Right now, I want to tell him he’s wrong and that I disagree with him.

But, every time I use “I”, his voice comes out.

I’ll Find a Way to Keep Your Smiles & Kisses Allie Kyff ’14

i’ll find a way to keep your smiles and kisses in a little glass jar and wait ‘till late august to set them free they’ll fly like the fireflies we caught in june glow against the twilight sky the streetlights will flicker on one by one but i’ll only be bidding adieu to your smiles, kisses and you

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Lookout

Trees Are like Mothers

Julia Bayer ’15

Sarah Gianni ’14

Trees are like mothers. They harbor life. They nurture. Nurturing comes naturally to tress, it is in their roots. Trees never get tired, just as mothers never seem to do. Spring after spring they take care of their little budding leaves, silently sleeping until they are ready to bloom.

All through the summer, as their leaves dance and play in the warm blowing wind, a tree stands strong, watching over the play. However, when the fall blows its first cool wind, and their leaves begin to curl and change into magnificent golds and reds, trees are like mothers in that they let their children go. Their leaves let go of the tree, just as a child lets go of their mother’s hand. They carve a path for themselves, dancing in the air, as they make their way out on their own.

Yet just as the bond between a mother and child is strong, leaves always have their way of falling just beneath the tree. They pile underneath the branches that become increasingly sparse, lying in comfort against the strong trunk, and their roots. They are on their own now, but will always remain close to the one who brought them life.

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From the Woods

The Playground

Taylor Kennedy ’14

Kali Lawrence ’19

Here, The children all play Together The Europeans and the Africans and the Asians; Each proud of their heritage.

In the summer, They pour water down The twisty blue slide Their own Insano Just like the one at the Theme park That they will never go to.

Bullet to the Head Michael Scappaticci ’15

Inspired by “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” by J.D. Salinger Alone, Alone, I am Alone There is no comfort found in my wife, although she finds comfort in our consumerist society There is no comfort found in the vacation room which many have stayed There is no comfort found in the soft pillows or springs of the mattress There is no comfort found in the granular warm sand nor the crisp coll waves of the ocean The only touch of comfort that I had found was the innocent mind of youth walking on the beach for a moment There is no comfort, then returning to reality realizing I am alone I finally find comfort with the hilt of the colt firmly in my hand as I pull the trigger, finally finding peace 23

In the spring, They weave crowns of Thistles And dandelions Become kings and queens On a regal throne of moss.

In the fall, They read their Hand-me-down history Books Once used by their own Mother In the shade of the oaks.

In the winter, They sled on The pizza boxes They found behind their apartments Here, The monkey bars are Jungle vines The swings are magic carpets The tunnels are mazes Here, The hungry girl Owns a restaurant The homeless boy, A mansion The girl who will never make it to College Is a brilliant scientist.

Here, It doesn’t matter If you are poor If your mother drinks Or your father abuses you.

Here, Rags are silken robes An apple is a feast Everyone is equal The playground is your kingdom.

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2013 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize Recipient

On the playground, No one knows Of hardship, Of fear, Of sadness.

Pressure

All Smiles

Andrew Sikora ’13

Brooke Goldsmith ’13

7:15……… it’s 7:15!

Shower Run down stairs Eat Breakfast

Go to car….left keys in room.

Passing Lane

Exit 39….Traffic Run across green Gotta Make this light 7:58 “Hi Ms. Dudzik!”

Bell Rings…Safe

O’sifuni Mungu Still gotta do that homework Facebook 9:34 Five problems left…..umm A, E, B, D, C. Dunkin’ Test in two periods

What’s the X today?

Omega looks like a fish “Jack, can I borrow G & A?” “Close it!”

Please don’t call on me 11:05 Flip the tape Test time Mean Value theorem……….Nothing

Calculator on the floor 12:30 Horror and Relief Yes! Bread Bowls.

“What did you get for number 4?”

Hey, I actually got that Om nom nom Gossip Squirrel falls out of tree 1:25 “Well, you see, Mr. Monroe” I wanna move west

Almost there #3 Populate a 2D array?

Counter mod two 0 right…..10 two left ….4 “JULIE!” 3:35 stop heating Loud music Two lines

“Kingswood on three” Lace up the cleats. Step on the field. Play the game.

Life is so simple; the ball, the goal and me.

Just me. Heavy breathing…..

Clarity.

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Turtlenecks

Facebook: The End of the World as We Know It

Taelor Scott ’13

Callie Miles ’14

Taelor’s Top Five Ancient Execution Methods:

1.) Iron Maiden 2.) Rack

3.) Drawing & Quatering

4.) Being burnt at the stake 5.) Crucifixion

The first part wasn’t so bad, The rope was kind of itchy.

It was my behavior; Just a little witchy.

They put some logs at my feet: Oak, fir and maple.

Next they used a match, fire was staple.

My flesh is burning, stomach is churning; I hope I’m dead before it burns my head.

This terrible execution, though a sacred institution, leaves me in pain.

Nothing to gain.

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Today’s your birthday along with 7 other friends. “happy birthday” enter “happy birthday” enter “happy bi--” pause. Huh? backspace.

Wait, who are you again?

You’re a typical brunette with a typical high-def profile picture.

With over 200 likes?? OK. It’s captioned with the lyrics to an Iron and Wine song followed by some stupid metaphor you thought was clever somehow relating the scene of your picture to the song.

Aren’t you artistic.

Why are we friends on facebook?

You don’t know me, and I certainly don’t know you But for some reason One of us just decided to press accept.

Why? Maybe it was just to rack up the number of public “friends” Cause popularity is everything, right?

Or maybe you helped me hit 1000.

Or maybe we just wanted more likes on our unnecessarily staged, edited, and posed “defaults” and figured, why not? “yolo.”

Disgusting.

Doesn’t that seem weird?

These are quite clearly the desperate days of the online life.

To put it plainly, I wouldn’t recognize your name without your profile picture next to it.

I wouldn’t recognize which was your face in your profile picture if you weren’t tagged.

And let’s be quite honest, I wouldn’t pretend to recognize anything about you if we didn’t have 50 mutual friends.

But because we do share at least 50 friends 52 to be exact, I have met the minimum requirement To be “friends” with a stranger.

If I saw you in person, I wouldn’t hug you Or talk to you Or say hi to you I probably would do anything not to make eye contact with you.

We’ve never spoken, and I plan on never speaking to you But then again, I know your whole life, don’t I? I mean, we are friends on facebook.

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Holly

Forrest Gump

Frank Bruno ’13

Julia McGowan ’15 I want to be loved like Forrest loves Jenny He doesn’t have to bring me a box of chocolates And I don’t have to go to an all-girls college And he doesn’t have to go to war And I don’t have to become a hippie But I want to be loved like Forrest loves Jenny I want a friendship like Forrest and Bubba He doesn’t have to be an All-American football player And I don’t have to be a shrimp connoisseur And he doesn’t have to rescue anyone And I don’t have to die in his arms But I want a friendship like Forrest and Bubba I want a relationship like Forrest and his mother He doesn’t have to be a ping pong player And I don’t have to sleep with his teacher And he doesn’t have to meet John Lennon And I don’t have to lie about his father But I want a relationship like Forrest and his mother I want a mindset like Forrest Gump Because then I could think the best of people And love someone unconditionally And make a lifelong friendship And look up to someone with utter certainty But “stupid is as stupid does” and maybe I’m not smart enough

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Night in the Guay

Canadian Border

Julia Bayer ’15

Jack Sullivan ’14 Hours tick by, Times sure does fly, Jeez, what a lie I’m still waiting.

If only it was shorter, To cross this border If we don’t pass soon I’ll miss the first quarter I’m fading.

Radio only plays Justin Bieber I sure hope I don’t catch his fever Hopefully I’ll lose radio receiver Sorry Justin, I’m not hating.

Guy in front of me is a hoarder, they’re checking his car at the border Vacation time’s a’ wasting!

I can’t wait to enter Canada As I’m quite a fan of the Glorious ice skating But until then, I’ll sit in my personal pig pen.

Crap! It’s almost ten I’m still waiting.

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Rust

The Idea

Matt Kahn ’13

Virginia Villa ’14 The idea is the reason I remember The idea hasn’t changed Neither has the feeling It’s coupled with You’ve changed Your feelings Have changed too But when you left You left an idea That sits beside me And doesn’t say anything It just looks on Occasionally grazing The back of my mind Bringing back feelings That had been forgotten But not changed And every time I look at you The idea whispers in my ear Tickles my throat Nudges my arms Softly But enough For me to remember Enough So I won’t forget

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Bold Letters

Dance Class

Max Bash ’15

Matt Guerrera ’15 Point that foot, just a little bit harder.

Leap off the floor, just a little bit higher.

Stay on tempo, stay up beat.

Smile, head up, don’t slow down.

Relax, breathe. You are doing great.

5, 6, 7, 8, you in the back, turn around.

There you go, now twirl to the right.

Focus, breathe, no need to worry, Arms up, spot, and turn.

Breathe...breathe, BREATHE! Escape from this complicated world, focus on you, be courageous, be bold.

You are doing fine, no need to mold.

Bravo, standing proudly in front of me.

You did it, you’re there.

I stepped forward, I no longer have fear.

In here, I am whoever I want to be.

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Toe-mas

My Riemann’s Sum

Lydia Bailey ’15

AJ Greene ’14

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2013 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize Recipient

As I tread further towards infinity, with a vast emptiness cascading around, my disappointment in myself grows proportionately to my length; my bondage, in the form of a singular dimension, eternally tortures me at every point, as I ascend and dive in my latticed prison; however, I am gently touched at points.

Her beauty is irrational; her goal, imaginary. Yet, I want to protract away; with every apex and nadir made, she stretches to fill the gap and to caress me, whether I’m positive or not.

Her estimations of me feel like derision, but I still see her as integral.

She measures the gap of my endless life and displays a new, conjectural meaning.

Concurrently, I love her, but I don’t know y.

Blacked Out

An Excerpt from “The Tragedy of the Clocksmith”

Addie Waskowitz ’15

Thomas Wilson ’14

There were few cars that rolled down the streets on the Thursday afternoon, and those that did, drove perfunctorily in a way that made them of no interest to the two strolling together along the sidewalk. These made it difficult for them to take their minds off of the fact that they were alone and not talking. The man on the right reflectively looked down at the ground with his hands relaxed in his pockets, but with his shoulders hunched and tense. His brow was furrowed in a way that made him look almost pitiful. The other wanderer constantly looked around, desperate to find something to do or think about.

“How is everything?” grumbled Hank, abruptly breaking the silence and briefly scaring the boy.

“Fine. It’s okay I guess,” stuttered the boy.

Hank sighed deeply through his nose and rubbed his right eye.

“How was school?” he asked conversationally.

“It was fine. Edgar brought in a chocolate bar and—“

“Who did?”

“Edgar…and he gave me some.”

“That’s nice,” said Hank absently, turning his head to watch two women packing up their bags on the tennis court. They wore clean white shirts and spoke boisterously to each other. One woman looked up and saw Hank, who hastily faced the ground again. Their squawking was soon drowned out by a lawn mower, a n u b iqu it o u s s o u n d in s u b u r b a n Connecticut. A slightly overweight middle-aged man pushed the mower, sweating zealously and staining his tattered red shirt with the shape of a heart. The loud humming noise allowed for silence between Hank and the boy. They relaxed and walked slower. Soon they could hear the sound of their own footsteps again and the boy methodically began to pick at his nails, which were too long.

“A bird flew into a window today,” said the boy.

“Oh. Was it okay?” Hank replied carelessly, turning his head and looking behind him.

“No,” said the boy who carefully stepped over puddle. “It died.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Ms. Williams said it might have had a family.”

“Probably,” said Hank dryly.

They walked a bit further, their shadows growing longer.

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The boy slapped his thighs and clucked his tongue repeatedly, looking all around him before staring at his father and reporting, “Ms. Williams told us a story today. Do you know the story about the clocksmith?”

“No,” Hank thought for a bit, “I don’t think so.”

Eagerly, the boy began: “It’s about this clocksmith who works on making clocks, and everyone wants to buy his clocks because they are so precise and beautiful. The king and the queen from Spain even sail to America to buy the clocks he makes. He makes watches too, but they aren’t as good as his clocks.” The boy stopped for a second, bit his lip, and looked again at Hank who continued staring at the pavement. He uninhibitedly began to talk again, “In his workshop he has thousands of clocks that all tick at the same time. But one day he stops making clocks for people because he has an idea to make the most amazing clock he’s ever made. He decides to lock himself in his workshop, away from his wife and other stuff. Finally, after months of work, he finishes making his magical clock, which can control actual time. The clockmaker is really excited about his clock and tests it out right away, and sends himself sixty years into the future. But when he gets there he accidently breaks the hands of his magical clock, and he gets stuck in the future where his wife and kids and dog are dead.”

The boy suddenly stopped and shivered. He looked away from his father as if embarrassed, and clenched his hands into fists. It was starting to get dark. Hank cleared his throat and said insecurely, “Ms. Williams told you that story?”

“Yes.” The boy went back to slapping his thighs. “She told it better though. Can you pick me up? I’m getting tired.”

“We’re almost home.”

They walked for another ten minutes, their shadows becoming lankier by the second, as if going through puberty. The boy suddenly began kicking recklessly into the air while walking. His eyes were focused curiously at the ground and his tongue stuck out of his mouth and pressed against his upper lip.

“Charles, what the hell are you doing?” questioned Hank.

“I’m trying to get my shadow to kick your shadow,” said the boy matter-of-factly.

“Well, can you stop it? It’s annoying.”

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Bob’s Peter Baczyk ’15

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Anatomy

Ode To My Calculus Textbook

Eva Stys ’13

Keenan Line ’15

Flesh and bone, Flesh and bone, That’s all it is, Is flesh and bone.

Rosy cheeks, Tinted tone.

But that’s all it is, Is flesh and bone.

There’s screaming hearts and sobbing minds.

Even fingertips that are worn and dry.

Cracking elbows, Worn out thighs, Even sad and tired eyes.

Legs that have traveled the great unknown, But that’s all it is, Is flesh and bone.

In you and me that’s all they see, Skeletons marching to eternity.

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Oh Calculus Textbook, our relationship is so dear!

So much sense to me you make so logical, so orderly your derivatives and integrals!

We have our disagreements; sometimes we just need time.

That’s healthy, right?

So unlike my emotions which, trust me, defy logic, you are my escape.

The derivative of sine equals cosine.

The integral of 2x equals x squared.

So pure, so predictable I wish I could force my angst, my passion Into one of those equations So I could know what to expect So I could just punch numbers into my calculator–– find an answer.

Oh Calculus Textbook, how dear you are to me!

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Fish Eye

Introduction to the College Process

Caley Henderson ’13

Sophie Pennoyer ’14 You tell me to enjoy it, to find my niche, to try on colleges until one fits perfectly.

You tell me to find the Hogwarts of the muggle world, my dream school.

You tell me to try them on like wedding dresses, until I say yes to the perfect one, to hold it up in the mirror, and to feel excited about my future.

You want me to hold up paint swatches to my wall, until I find the one that looks best throughout the day, to get hopelessly lost in the college world, until I can locate myself on a map.

You say to try on every shoe until I find my glass slipper, the shoe perfectly formed to fit my feet.

But all I want to do is put the colleges on a spreadsheet, and beat the acceptance rates out of them, torturing them, until they spurt out SAT scores and retention rates.

I want to fit them into perfect categories, organizing them by career outcomes and student-teacher ratios.

I want to wear the painful 7-inch heels, the ones that are a size too small, or the ones with the extra toe room, to put me higher up in life.

I tell myself I’d be able to get used to the heels, they would become comfortable after a few years.

I could get used to them; the blisters would eventually heal.

I convince myself that they fit; after all, they really are beautiful shoes.

I wouldn’t want to wear ugly shoes.

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Sexiest Man in Asia

Caring Too Much

Katherine Gianni ’14

Molly Sullivan ’15

How did this happen? Everything was going perfectly until this one little thing came up. I should have seen it coming. How could this have happened?! Ted was so close, but now it’s all gone. And what about me?

That’s the last time I try to be nice. You may be a bit confused as to what is happening now, so let me fill you in. I was accepted into Saint Andrews in Scotland! My boyfriend Ted was almost in (with my help obviously), but now this!

It’s the start of senior year, and all of us had the generic high hopes that anything can happen, this is our year. Ted and I were finally together after what seemed like a journey in itself, with him being starting varsity captain and high in the ranks at school already. My year started out with field hockey dealing with the “Oh my God, I haven’t seen you since, like, June!” BS everyone gives each other, and of course, the high riding freshman.

Anyway, the year started out promising for me, with an early acceptance into Saint Andrews in Scotland. Getting into my dream school and being able to finally take control of something that was within my grasp made everything seem perfect, except for one thing.

Ted came over one night for a “study session” and told me some exciting news. “Aria, I have a verbal commitment with Saint Andrews. If I keep it up in soccer, I could potentially have a soccer scholarship for next year!” I could barely contain my excitement! Ted and I were able to go to college together! “Coach MacDonald said if I do well in college and ‘with a wee bit of luck and wee bit of practice, I can make it in the big leagues.’”

When I was finally able to catch my breath after laughing over Ted’s Scottish impression, I said, “That all sound great, but what about the wee detail of grades?”

“That is the one thing that’s holding me back. I would be all set if they were higher, but now I’m only set with a commitment.”

“It shouldn’t be that much of a problem. I mean, just meet with your teachers more and see if they can help you get ready for the tests.” He just stared at me with that fake smile he puts on to end the discussion. I should have known that he wasn’t going to listen to me, but of course, all I could focus on were his big brown eyes full of obvious joy.

A week after hearing the big news, Ted’s grades dropped by a whole letter, and it was obvious to everyone that they weren’t going to get up in time for the final decision. I knew that if he wouldn’t go for help by himself, 47

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he was going to need some forceful assistance. That was when everything went right down the drain.

I came up with the whole plan. Ted came over for an actual study session, and I told him my idea.

“WHAT?! Are you crazy!? You know how much I need that scholarship. If I get caught, we are BOTH going to get it.”

Why would you bother questioning me? You know you’re going to end up doing it in the end; why cause a fight over nothing? Is what I wanted to tell him, but instead…

“Trust me, this isn’t the first time I helped someone this way. I have someone that we can trust and everything will go perfectly, as long as you don’t mess up.”

“Are you sure this is the only way?”

“Well, it’s the quickest. You could always meet with a teacher and admit you actually need help. But if you want your grades up (by the end of the season), then yeah.”

Ted tried to come up with a different way, but he knew I was right.

To make it easier on him and not pull a total Lady Macbeth, I stole the answers to the Macbeth test. I didn’t read them; I understood the story well enough to get a good grade on it. The next day in English class, Ted seemed extra jumpy, probably more because he knew he would do well on something he would normally fail. I still don’t get why he was nervous, I mean, the test was easy enough for him to get a B on even without the answers.

After school, we were sitting in his car and he was over analyzing every little thing he did leading up to the test. “Well, I told Mrs. Duff that I was ready to take the test, but I usually tell her that this isn’t going to go well. And I usually don’t talk during science, but today I was talking more about meiosis or mitosis, or whatever it is we’re doing. The point is someone is going to find out!”

“You took the test, you got a good grade, so just play it cool. You really need to calm down. I’m dating the captain of the soccer team, not the cheerleading squad.” Well, that shut him up pretty quickly, at least for that day. Taking the answers became a more common routine, and after a while, I didn’t have to go with him to take the tests. We had this guy I knew from photography, Connor, make copies of the test and put them in Ted’s car under the driver’s seat every Monday. I didn’t know it then, but I guess Connor liked me and thought that by helping Ted, I would swoon to him, which would NEVER happen.

Ted was able to keep up the act for the most part, except on the most unexpected place, the field. Don’t get me wrong, he was still thought of as stud, god, whatever, but he just wasn’t playing with all of his heart. You could see his face get paler as soon as a teacher called his name, and he felt like someone was going to come up behind him and scream “Gotcha!”

But no one found out. Everything continued on like nothing was happening, I was still innocent little Aria, Ted was still a superstar and his grades were finally high enough for the commitment to be permanent, and Connor was still a ‘no one.’ But, of course, everything breaks sooner or later, I was just hoping for later, like in our eighties later.

Ted was talking to Coach MacDonald again about our team’s undefeated record, shocking in more ways than one, and how we were now in the championships. “He said that as long as I play up to par, (not depending on whether we win or lose the game), I am in!” Ted told me.

Finally, months of stress would be done! I could actually see the glimmer come back into Ted’s eyes and the color come back into his original rosy cheeks. “Just a slight problem,” Ted continued.

“What?”

“Connor came up to me while I was getting ready to leave, and when I told him I didn’t have any tests this week, he said that’s not why he was here. He was like ‘the one who is making it possible for you to even play, I want to see a win for once before we graduate. Lose this game and consider your spot at Saint Andrews lost too.’”

“He’s probably just messing with you and trying to get into your head, but I’ll be sure he doesn’t come near the game on Saturday so you can focus.” I stayed and watched the whole time, missed the game, and never saw Connor come near the field.

Yes! Saint Andrews Class of ’17! But then my phone rang and I saw that it was Ted’s dad, “Come to the hospital. Ted is hurt.” I sped through traffic and got to the hospital, finding out that Ted tore his hamstring and broke different parts of his knee in his kicking leg. “W h a t t h e h e l l h a p p e n e d ? ! ” i s a l l I c o u l d s ay.

With a heavy sigh, Ted moaned from his emergency room bed, “Dad, can you give us a minute?”

“I don’t see why I should. You know I know already, but I’m too disappointed to even look at you,” Mr. Roberts said in a huff. Great, his dad knows. The most clueless man on the face of the Earth knows; Ted caved.

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“I didn’t break! Last five minutes of the game, we were tied at 0-0, and then, I saw Connor. Not on the side line, but in the middle of the field by the Scorpions’ goal. I tried to shake the image but all I could see was his face. I asked Rick if he saw Connor, but he just looked at me like I was crazy, so I let it go. The game went, still 0-0 and then I started hearing voices, like, from my teachers and everyone about how they all knew and I’m a coward and how I’m never going to amount to anything and I’m a tool, stuff like that. Then we moved the ball up the field and the voices started getting louder and louder, and I was getting closer to Connor.

Then I saw Connor open his mouth and I thought he was going to tell everyone so I just sprinted at him the hardest I’ve ever run in my life and slid to wipe him out. As soon as I was sliding, he disappeared and I couldn’t stop myself. My leg went right into the post and that’s how we got here.

Speechless. I couldn’t say anything; I don’t even know where to start.

“Umm…uh… how did everyone find out?”

“Connor apparently came after I was taken off the field. Told Coach and my parents and Coach MacDonald… I lost my scholarship, not that it would make a difference anyway, seeing how the only way I could have gotten in was with actually playing.”

“Wait, you are permanently done with soccer?!”

“Have to be, my leg is never going to be strong enough to play at the next level.”

This is all my fault. I’m the one who gave him the idea to take the tests, I’m the one who made him listen to me, and I’m the reason Connor’s life is over. But, at least I’m still…

Two rings of the phone echoed through my house. Long distance call.

“Hello… This is she… WHAT?!.... But… What about… Not even my grades… Please I’m beg-… I understand.” No future, no college, no backups. I still have Ted, but all we have is our lives, nothing.

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Wandering the Roads Claire Halloran ’15

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Scorpions of the Mind

Ruthie Dannehy ’13

Anya Delventhal ’15

I buried my feet deep inside that heavy earthy innocence until my toes curled around moist clods

Laura paced back and forth. Her eyes swept over the spotless living room. She had been waiting for four hours now. The only thing that looked out of place was the large, fat, golden retriever currently drooling enough to flood the whole house.

“Aren’t you excited? He’s coming home! The least you could do is stay awake.” Laura nudged the dog with her foot. The dog opened one eye before snorting and falling back into a deep slumber.

She went back to pacing. She frowned, wondering what was taking them so long. It had been years since she had seen Shawn, but now that he was so close she had lost all patience with waiting. Crouching down, Laura dragged the dog around the corner of the hallway and hid with him in the shadows.

The door opened. She watched as one slightly balding and pot bellied figure passed her. She crouched down, waiting for the second one to walk by. Just then two unexpected arms grabbed her, hoisting her into the air. Laura let out a screech before bursting out into laughter.

“Thought you could sneak up on me, did you?”

Laura twisted around in the man’s arms before coming face to face with a familiar grin.

“Shawn! Put me down!”

“No way. I caught you fair and square!”

She squirmed and slipped away from his arms. She stepped back and examined her brother. He was just as tall as ever, with the same laughing blue eyes and dusty blond hair that the two siblings shared. His skin was tanner than usual but all in all he hadn’t changed much. His army uniform looked newly washed and was clearly well loved.

“I missed you.”

Shawn beamed down at her and pulled her into another hug. “I missed you too.”

The three sat and passed the evening together, laughing, talking and being utterly blissful.

A few hours passed and then they all agreed that it was high time they got some sleep.

It was past midnight when she heard the screams. Laura sat

And I could envision our bathtub bleached and cracked with caked rings of soap scum making constellations on the ledge.

I stood in my dirt, adding two new rings to our bathtub which my father will scrub at until his bleach bleeds deep into the linoleum lifting out the sickly shade of yellow and the rings of dirt around the tub where I washed my feet and peeled back layers of mud from my toes using a splintered brush that left an imprint on my palm

2013 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize Recipient

Today I Stood in a Pile of Dirt

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straight up in bed.

“What the-“

Muffled, angry and yet utterly terrified shouts came from her wall.

The fat retriever was, for once, wide-awake. His hackles were up and he was growling, teeth flashing in the moonlight.

“Shawn?” The screams could only be his. She recognized his voice anywhere.

Laura pulled her door open and trotted softly down the hall. She pushed his door open and immediately her eyes found him; he was thrashing about in his bed. His back arched, and he let another horrid scream.

Laura rushed to her brother’s side. “Shawn.” She shook him, desperate for him to wake up and stop his screaming. “Shawn! Shawn it’s okay! I’m here, please wake up!” She shook him harder and just like that his eyes were open, and he was looking right at her.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“You were having a nightmare. You even woke up the dog.”

“I’m fine.” Shawn snapped at her. He pushed her hands away.

“Get out.”

“Shawn…”

“I said get out!”

Laura glared at him. “Fine! Sorry for trying to help.” She turned around and stormed out. When she got back to her bedroom she threw herself on her bed. That wasn’t Shawn. That wasn’t her brother. Shawn was kind and loyal. The way he was acting was, well, it wasn’t natural.

Laura eventually fell back asleep, failing to notice that the golden retriever was still awake, growling.

Days passed and a routine was established; When the sun was up Shawn and Laura were the best of friends, just like when they were little; but when the sun went down Shawn’s screams could be heard for hours.

She started to notice that his nightmares were slipping away from his dreams and creeping into his real life. Once, during dinner, Shawn slapped his plate away, shouting about scorpions trying to poison him.

A month went by and things got worse. Shawn had started rampaging through the house, first only at night, when his dreams woke him, but more and more during the day. Laura had learned it was best to lock herself in her room during these episodes. The time came, however, when she didn’t have enough time

to hide away under her covers.

His fists slammed into the wall and he let out an angry scream.

Shawn’s eyes met hers. She was frozen. These sorts of things usually only happened when she was in her room and there was a thick wall between them. But now he was barely ten feet from her, and he looked furious.

“This is your fault. You made me do it!” Shawn started to move towards her. “You made me into a monster!” Laura stumbled backwards.

“I didn’t do anything, I swear!” Her eyes searched for an escape route. They landed on her bedroom door. Without a moment’s hesitation she dashed for it and slammed it shut, making sure to lock it as well.

Shawn’s fists beat against the wood.

“I’m going to show just what a monster I am! I’m going to show you what you made me!”

She slid down the door, her back pressed to the wood. Tears streaked her face as her brother’s screams and angry fists thundered in her ears. Laura pulled out her cell phone and with trembling fingers hit 911.

Three months passed before Laura saw Shawn again. He had been placed in the Peacefields Psychiatric Hospital.

Laura sat down beside her brother. They didn’t talk. Laura didn’t think he could anymore. His eyes were dead and empty inside. His body may have survived the war, but his mind had not. She supposed that violence was the only thing he knew now, and, in the end, it had become his only option. On the other side of her chair the dog slept, drool dripping down his chin.

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Exorcism

Scotty

Cat Flaherty ’14

Ben Sullivan ’16

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Future Number Seven

Studly Stare

Marissa Landino ‘13

Rachel Dietz ’14

On. Off. On. Off. Repeat and repeat the rituals. Replay the playlist. Lace the skates.

I never thought I’d have a last game.

last shift.

last anything.

But I did.

I’ve experienced my first lasts. They were horrible.

Yours are next (best of luck).

For the first time, someone else’s arms will slip through the sleeves of my jersey.

Your arms.

Someone else’s sweat will seep into the fabric.

Your sweat.

For the first time, The Number will lay between someone else’s shoulders.

Your shoulders.

MY hard work. MY blood. MY tears.

Gone.

Just to be replaced with that of Future Number Sevens.

For the first time, the phrases:

“goal scored by Number Seven!” or

“assist by Number Seven!” or even

“penalty on Number Seven!”

will not be about me.

They will be about you.

But how I really wish it was me.

Take the Number. It’s yours now.

Because I’m left with the chill of the rink that will never leave my bones.

No matter how hard I try to get rid of it.

Sincerely, the athlete formerly known as Number Seven 59

Damn Girl Payton Krupp ’15 Your eyes are as blue as the sea Reminding me of all our lost memories I still wonder what we could be You are truly one of a kind All I want is you to be mine ‘Cause damn girl, you’re fine 60

A Chat

Self Portrait in Ink and Charcoal

Thomas Fischer ’14

Emma Waldman ’14

“Hey.” Wonder if she’ll actually say something this time.

“Hey …What’s up?”

Ugh. This again?

“Not much. You?” Hmm, there’s a chance.

“The usual.” …Damn him, why can’t he just leave me alone. …Great, don’t get too excited.

How does he not get it??? I’ve been as clear as possible.

Well this is fun. “…”

I don’t lead him on, I ignore him, I avoid him, and yet here he is. “…Did you get the homework?”

“Kinda, but it was hard. What did you get for 19?

Ugh, go away. I know what you want, and it sure as hell is not homework help.

“I didn’t get to that one.”

Maybe I should just go do the homework. …Sigh.

Why did I even bother? I must be as stupid as they say.

Why does he bother? Shoo! Leave! …I guess I’ll sit. … I hate you. ... …

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Bizarre

Bottled Up

Sophia Harrison ’15

Max Bash ’15

The Bazaar: Melodious muezzins calling The faithful to prayer, The cobblestone alleys twisting Into dark recesses.

The hazy clouds of shisha mingling With perfumes: jasmine, frankincense, and hibiscus.

Silver lanterns reflecting Hillocks of saffron and cayenne.

And me; Too white.

Too blonde, And a foreigner to myself.

A 7th grade girl, with braces and acne.

How was I supposed to absorb and understand the complexity of a third world country?

When I could barely understand why my body was changing.

How could I feel more of an outsider Than I already feel?

The journey to this distant land Has brought me to the shores Of my even more awkward self.

Silent women with downcast eyes, —Like black birds fluttering— Segregated from men, Seem almost lucky.

Dreaming with Opened Eyes Meghan Kennedy ’15

How I wish I could be burka-covered To hide from the unwelcomed stares, And somewhat fit in with this strange place.

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Eyes slowly closing The dark shadows on the walls The cool feelings of the pillow underneath your head.

The black night sky The chirping crickets The worries running through your mind, All drifting away.

Suddenly placed in a new world Full of colors, Surrounded by light shown off by the sun.

There are no boundaries or obstacles that you cannot overcome.

You can run, you can jump, and before you know it, You can fly.

But when you wake up again, Will you?

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Rusty Keys

Words

Connor Keenan ‘14

Addie Waskowitz ’15 Sometimes I leave my words in places That I shouldn’t. They sit alone, waiting And ready to be used. This often Takes too long and my words start wandering off to Other mouths, Other ears, Other places That they should never know.

After days of being tossed around in the Jungle of mismatched sentences, I find my words Broken and lost.

It is time to stop leaving my words In places that I shouldn’t.

Pain Hailey Guyette ’15

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off Sam Willsey ’13

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is every teenager’s dream: fake sick, skip school, and have the time of your life in a city like Chicago with your girl and best friend. Ferris represents a spirit, a generation, a way of life that many aspire to. His personality is contrasted with the foil and main character, Cameron. Meanwhile, Ferris’s demeanor is complemented by Sloan’s easygoing, caring qualities. Ferris is a legend.

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Never wake up If I don’t then I’ll be safe. Whether it is touching my body or my heart. The pain rushes through my body hurting me and my confidence.

I don’t want to come back to this place I don’t want to see these people. But whenever I do, I’m scared. The names go through my mind every second I can’t take it anymore. I need to leave. When I stand up, I fall right back down.

No one knows. Only the ones giving me the pain. The only question is will they stop?

If I do get help, I’ll be called that again. Help 66

The Soundtrack of the Leaky Faucet

Stray

Phoebe Taylor ’18

Claire Halloran ’15

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2013 Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize Recipient

Drip… drip.

The endless soundtrack of that leaky faucet, Drops of water waste away, minutes trickle by.

Melted wishes flow on down, those pipe dreams only that.

Drip… drip.

They all collect in that sea of broken promises.

The Pacific, The Atlantic, They are dwarfed by this, the broken ocean.

The waves do not crash, the storms do not roar They do not recycle this endless sea.

No ship has ever dared sail, for none will come running back.

Not a ripple above, but a wail from below those hopes just don’t want to let go.

Drip… drip.

Maybe there’s a girl up there… maybe a boy… maybe they’ll go fishing, maybe they’ll brave a sail on that lonely river.

Maybe they’ll care to mend a piece of that broken ocean.

Maybe.

Maybe someday, someone will come.

Maybe someone with know-how And some brains to match it up.

They’ve got to have a heart, but maybe… someday.

Drip… drip.

For now, We just listen to the soundtrack of that leaky faucet.

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Popcorn Story At the club fair, we asked each of you to contribute one line to a story based on the previous line. We promised to reveal your creation to you one day. So, here it is. st. air at fir f b lu c e bout th ervous a n ’t n s a w Jon Wu

Then, he walked inside and saw Ruthie and Ben and he was puzzled.

They w e costum re wearing c hi es and on a tr eating cken ampol birdsee ine. d

swore nd u W efe on ed, J Epic to d b r u t s to di Very o submit ncestors. t a never nor of his o the h

I am a boy.

He got hit by a car.

eon

e ye lled

and

all

yb e volle h t o t nt ne we witt. o y r e v And e 2:30 in He at game

Except for Larry, who was busy running skateboarders off campus.

No one was le ft besides the dragon.

We pop like corn.

Som

When everyone left the room, they found out that they were trapped by a dragon.

And the dragon went to the next town, hurling balls of fire.

All the people in the town were running around screaming as the town burned down.

mil t Ro n e om aw ul m ve his j ). f e t a fa ” the ad to h (“fiddy s i t Tha it. He h e Fifty h ik was shut, l d wire

call

ed f or h elp.

What really happened was Romil had to be rushed to the hospital to get a new heart.

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Popcorn story authors:

But they accidently gave him a baby monkey’s heart.

Just

kiddi

ng, E va’s a ginge r.

le! nnis ru e T O and K KOVB

Then

the un icorn

With the most formidible warriors in all of Kingswood, Jon Wu and Romil incapacitated, KO Tennis was free to sieze control of the kingdom and begin a new reign of terror, the likes of which were never seen before.

jumpe

d over the le precha un.

Brooke Hayes

Ben Sullivan

Emma Cowper

Mike Hathaway

Shane Carroll

Kiki Thorington

Taylor Brady

Chris Marcello

Alexandra Banasiewicz

Dayna Lord

Hunter Sanders

Steph Yandow

Meg Kasprak

Matt Kahn

Romil Hemnani

Max Bash

Austin Williams

Mark Toubman

Brenda Winn

Evan Kelmar

Blake Randall

Lindsay Palma

Dylan Borruso

Jon Wu

Taryn Braz

Jack Beckerman

Hailey Guyette

(It’s a metaphor.)

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Kelly Caruso

Joanna Williams

Shelby Smith

Justin Genga

Joe Rogus

Caley Henderson

Griffin Gildersleeve

Andrew Sikora

Claudia Udolf 72

epic 2013