High Tide Literary and Arts Magazine

HIGH TIDE Cape Fear Academy’s Literary and Arts Magazine

THE PANDEMIC YEARS 2019-2021 VO L UM E IV

Letter from the

Editors

Welcome to Cape Fear Academy’s fourth edition of High Tide Literary and Arts Magazine. We produce this work so that students can express their individuality, compassion, and power through visual art and writing. Typically, our staff chooses a single theme to reverberate throughout the entire magazine. The past two years, however, have not been typical. As we debated ideas that would encompass all that has challenged us, we decided on two concepts for 2020-2021: isolation and togetherness.

Like two different angles of “Inverted Butterfly” (see covers), isolation and togetherness appear as polarized versions of each other; however, each possesses pieces of the other within itself. In order to feel the true effects of isolation, you first must have enjoyed togetherness. And in order to feel the full joy and gratitude of togetherness, you must experience isolation. What we all agreed upon was that the pandemic and its isolative effects really taught us how much we appreciate each other.

Our 2020 magazine, which ironically was focused around “growth,” was never published due to quarantine. When the whole world pressed pause, we were forced to stop. As we worked together this school year, we agreed that our readers deserved to experience all of our classmates’ creations and to connect with our disrupted past. As we progressed through this year, High Tide came to represent the confluence of both those concepts and the convergence of chaos and normalcy, questioning and certainty, ambivalence and drive. We began to see the thread of “The Pandemic Years” as “the world apart, turned upside down, and then right side up.”

Our magazine opens with “the world apart” and shares pieces representing the emotions and barriers we felt between ourselves and the outside world when lockdown began in March 2020. Its isolation, grief, and loneliness. “turned upside down” represents the 2019-2020 creations of our peers and highlights voices that question normalcy and honor disequilibrium as integral to the growth process. The final section of the magazine, “and right side up,” illustrates our value of coming together to grieve and hope.

We believe literature and art have the power to transform us, even if just for a moment, if we are open-minded. We hope that you will be. We hope that you find one piece that reflects an emotion that you have felt since the pandemic started over a year ago, and as a result, you will realize that you aren’t alone.

Lilly Chiavetta, 2021 Natasha Matt, 2021

Andrew Gramley, 2020 Joey McGarry, 2020

LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE CAPE FEAR ACADEMY THE PANDEMIC YEARS 2019-2021 VOLUME IV

Cover: Inverted Butterfly l NovemberWoditschka

Table of Contents

the world apart visual art 2 2 3 3 5 6 9 10 11 12 14 16

Derbyshire l Elliot Wells, 2022 Prenap Hunt l Sydney Cortina, 2024 Mountain Lake l William Legg, 2026 New Roads l Grace Landenberg, 2023 Looking Out on a Summer Dayl Nadya Kotlyarevska, 2024 Another “Girl with the Pearl Earring” l Sydney Cortina, 2024 Real Hooper l Jack McErlean, 2022 Smile l Izzy Gherardi, 2023 Mirror l Evan Das, 2021 Lighthouse View l Dakota Snyder, 2022 Sea Spray l Alexis Mearns, 2020 Hear No Evil; See No Evil l Sadie Campbell, 2023

writing 7 8 9 10 13 14 15 17

I Daydream Too Much l Natasha Matt, 2021 In My Bedroom l Sasha An, 2021 Was it Enough? l Matthew Ezzell, 2021 Nothing But Questions l Charles Murtha, 2021 My Forever Escape l Liza Murtagh, 2021 Fog l Taylor Sanderford, 2025 The Outsider l Sara Paige Harvey, 2024 The Dead End Club l Jagger van Vliet, 2023

turned upside down

visual art

19 Growth l Andrew Gramley, 2020 21 Jump l Grace Haslam, 2020 21 Fancy Flamingo l Sadie Branch, 2025 21 Donkey in Pasture l Audrey Sherman, 2025 21 Noodles l Lindsay West, 2020 23 Eye of the Tiger l Aurelia Colvin, 2023 24 Sidewalk l Charlotte Karanik, 2023 25 Color l Sandro Pantano, 2020 26 Clock Strings l Zealand Woditschka, 2026 27 Dark Hallways l Allie Dvozsak, 2025 29 Shattered Glass l Avery Bishop, 2022 31 Falling of Spring l Zesong (Joseph) Wang, 2021 31 Snapseed l Brooks Meine, 2021 32 Untitled l Elena Crvendakic, 2021 35 Incognito l Harrison Steven, 2020 36 Glow of Greatness l Mason Bouchard, 2021 38 Optimism l Makena Scanlon, 2023 41 Convergence, Maeve, Kelly, 2020 42 Sun Study l November Woditschka, 2022 42 Complicated Silence, Maeve Kelly, 2020 44 Hosts l Grace Haslam, 2020 2

Derbyshire l Elliot Wells; Prenap Hunt l Sydney Cortina

writing 20 Webkinz in the Attic l Isabella Santos, 2022 22 Baby Tiger Hunting l Mack Webb, 2020 24 Kaleidoscope l Summer Xia, 2020 26 Once My Gold Was Gone l Sydney Cortina, 2024 28 The Imperfect of the World l Anna Holt Basinger, 2025 30 The Boy or the Girl l Anna Qiu, 2020 33 Dangers Abroad l Maya Arora, 2020 34 Dangerous Young Minds l Jagger van Vliet, 2023 36 Experience vs. Maturity l Mason Bouchard, 2021 38 I am a Flower l Elena Gianoplus, 2021 39 As the Stream l Abigail Smith, 2020 40 Outside, Inside l Sydney Cortina, 2024 43 Selfish Sleep l Pearce Lewis, 2020

and right side up visual art 46 49 50 51 53 55 56 57 59 60 61 63 64 64 64 65

Pandemic l Sydney Cortina, 2024 Bird Collage l Arrison Moya, 2023 Sunrise Colors l Bella Erichsen, 2023 Sunset Solitude l Davis Kranchalk, 2021 Peaceful Dreaming l Aurelia Colvin, 2023 Take Action l Hunter Hawking, 2021 The Growth of Empathy l Nadya Kotlyarevska, 2024 Machine Art l Elena Crvendakic, 2021 Shallow Space l Elena Crvendakic, 2021 Hand in Hand l Eden Rienks, 2026 Blue Ridge Mountains l Riley Lallathin, 2024 Strawberry Bliss l Aurelia Colvin, 2023 Pack It Up l Tessa Zucker, 2027 Purple Pack l Mary Gibbs, 2027 Cameron Commons l Elliot Wells, 2022 Save the Bees l Delilah Mills, 2021

writing 46 48 50 51 52 54 56 57 58 60 61 62

Quid Est Humanis? l Sasha An, 2021 Read l Katie Meine, 2023 Your Piece l Lilly Chiavetta, 2021 Esta Noche - Tonight l Bella Jacobs, 2023 An Open Letter l Jagger van Vliet, 2023 The Plunge l Brooks Meine, 2021 What to do with Forgiveness l Sanders Lewis, 2024 Bikes l Pierceson Squires, 2023 The Russian Pianist l Joseph Politi, 2023 Parts of One Whole l Sasha An, 2021 Diamond Flower l Faye Riebe, 2025 Only Child l Alex Johnson, 2021

Mountain Lake l William Legg; New Roads l Grace Landenberg

3

Looking Out on a Summer Day l Nadya Kotlyarevska

5

6

Another “Girl with the Pearl Earring” l Sydney Cortina

Natasha Matt

I find myself losing hours minutes seconds wandering around in my head.

I see huge mountains begging for me to ski down, I visit pink beaches that fade effortlessly into turquoise oceans.

I soar through skies blotted with golden-white clouds, with the most majestic birds.

Their feathers reflect the beams of light from the warm sun blazing above.

I go places, places I truly can only dream of.

A smile draws the sides of my lips up like a curtain as my mind loosely wanders.

I feel my eyes struck with numbness as I watch a movie playing in the back of my head and can almost hear the clicking from the projector.

I feel myself slipping into my thoughts as if I were sliding down an icy ramp.

Mesmerized.

I notice my taste buds dance with the flavors of the places I travel.

I feel, the warmth of beaches brown my skin, the chill of snowflakes turn my face red, and the free winds comb through my hair.

I’m surrounded.

Sometimes my mind wanders too fast.

It gets challenging to pace myself,

and seems impossible to slow down my mind.

When the feelings of joy and ambition crash into me, I feel as if I am being both torn apart and welded together all in one moment.

I sometimes let my thoughts absorb me and encapsulate my mind.

I become a pebble and sink into the stream of my imagination.

On most days, I am aware that I am sinking, and I remember to hold my breath before I plunge into my thoughts.

I remember to come up for air.

On other days, I’m forgetful.

I feel dazed, as my thoughts cloud my vision like fog lingering over a lake on a spring morning.

I have to gather the strength to break free from the webbing of my thoughts that I have so carelessly spun around myself.

Daydreaming is something I find unavoidable.

My mind enjoys racing too much, producing thoughts like an assembly line.

If I don’t give in to my thoughts, I fear they will overload my brain.

They all wait patiently for their turn.

And until I allow them to happen, until I indulge in them, they refuse to leave.

7

In My Bedroom Sasha An

As someone who values sleep a lot, I think a bedroom is the most vital room in the house. After all, the place we trust with giving us a good night’s rest, and sense of personality, needs to fit to our values for life and comfort. Seven different homes, three different cities, and seven different schools taught me adaptability and practicality, with an equal emphasis on enjoyment and individuality. Aligning all of those into one idea is a bit like a scattergram which is why my room can at first appear like a random collection of objects.

My Ikea daybed takes up most of the main wall. After having pretty much every kind of bed imaginable, from a spacious king with a mesh canopy to a towering loft bed, my versatile little twin is the best match for my lifestyle now. The drawers underneath remind me to utilize space, focus on the essentials, and appreciate simple privileges. Two bookshelves line the opposite wall with a growing collection of books, some of which have taught me Latin, anatomy, sketching, and cake decorating. As a bibliophile and student, I needed an appropriate desk, so I dreamt one up. I measured, cut, sanded, stained, and drilled until I had a perfect standing desk from furniture-grade plywood. That little desk reminds me I am capable of accomplishing things on my own. Of independence.

Individualism and creativity come together to encapsulate my hobbies; a yoga mat under the desk ties me to health and fitness. Whether it’s morning yoga or dancing to my favorite songs, I try to incorporate movement whenever possible. A ukulele, which I can play well, and a keyboard piano, which I definitely cannot play well, sit nearby. Though I haven’t mastered any of my hobbies, they remind me to explore creatively and actively whenever possible.

Five stuffed animals on my window-seat remind me to embrace the glee and adventures that I had as a kid. My favorite, Panda, came along through every move and every plane ride… and yes, he’s a panda, named Panda. Above the stuffed animals on my window frame are two oriental fans, one from 8

Smile l Izzy Gherardi

a nearby Buddhist temple, the other given by my Korean grandmother; they root me to a rich culture I previously took for granted. Seeing the fans, I recall visits to my grandparents’ house on school breaks, my grandmother teaching me how to cook traditional Korean cuisine, and my grandfather helping me learn Hangul.

A small, hand-carved wooden zebra sits perched on one of my shelves, given to me by an old Kenyan man at a night market in Pittsburgh. It remains one of my most cherished possessions, symbolizing my love for travel and making new memories, and I will never forget that summer. Six weeks away from home, 100 actors all learning, bonding, and training under professionals; 24/7, refining our craft by day and spending nights laughing in each other’s dorm rooms. After a long day of classes we journeyed to the night market, a temporary relaxation before our mock auditions the following week. That night was paradise.

My room can seem like an arbitrary collection of minor points standing alone in the scattergram of my life. I always thought of myself as such an independent person, capable of being on my own, not needing anyone. Then I look at the polaroid pictures stuck to the wall above my bed. Each one is a 2.5 x 3-inch memory of times shared with friends and family.

Those connections have helped form the line of best fit on my scattergram. Everything I have represents a connection to others: the books from friends, the idea for the desk from a teacher, the yoga mat from my mother, and the instruments from my father.

Following my line, I will continue adding new dots, seeking new experiences, keeping old ones close, and forever growing along the way.

Was it Enough?

Matthew Ezzell

My final days are coming to an end.

All my memories and feelings return, striking my body like lightning.

As I reflect on my time on earth, I can’t help but shed a tear.

A fulfilling life I’ve lived, yet I am unsatisfied in what I have done for you.

I hope I have had a positive impact on your life.

I hope I made the world a better place for you to live in.

I hope you remember my name.

Real Hooper l Jack McErlean

9

Nothing but Questions Charles Murtha

What do we do?

What do we end up choosing in life?

What keeps us moving?

What stops us from just stopping?

Giving up?

Is it our day-to-day variations in the schedule that excite us?

Is it a goal that is years out but seems to live right down the block?

Is it a constant fear that our peers will look down on us if we take a break from the throttling marathon we feel the need to run?

Is there a finish line in sight?

Why does there even need to be a finish line in the first place?

Why must we work towards one defined goal to justify our humanity?

Why must fear be our driving force in living out our lives?

Why can’t we be content with our present selves and the accomplishments we’ve made?

Why not be satisfied?

These questions are valid.

They offer an open-ended insight into nearly every facet of life.

What a human does.

Its rapidly changing, yet defining moments of authenticity and proof of being alive.

Why they keep trudging on even when everything is telling them to stop.

This concept of “living”.

This idea of “humanity”.

This fruition of “free-thinking”.

Simply cannot be answered but rather questioned.

10

Through the limitless questions provided to us by our own mind comes a personal and unendly volatile solution.

Like most things in life the definition of your humanity changes with your evolution of thought.

But the art of questioning remains constant.

Smile l Izzy Gherardi

Mirror l Evan Das

11

12

Lighthouse View l Dakota Snyder

My Forever Escape It’s a sense of belonging, of peacefulness, that we long to discover.

An escape.

Perhaps we seek refuge from the expectations and desires of the world that take control of us as if we are puppets manipulated by the strings of society.

We observe from a distance.

Afraid of venturing into the unknown of failing of not being enough.

Thus, we watch as the waves steadily roll in, the sky slowly morphs into cotton candy. a concoction of pinks and oranges, and we slip into its pillowy depths as our lives hold still, stuck for a mere moment.

At last, the strings holding me captive are cut free as I wander into the billowy, chaotic surge.

My worries set free as the waves hold me and soothe my exasperations like a mother comforting her restless child.

The expectations of the world dissolve among the waves as they roll along, filling me with tranquility.

Now and for years to come.

A constant.

In search of our belonging.

Our peace.

A constant that I will return to again and again.

In search of my peace.

Here is my home.

My safe haven.

The sea.

My serenity.

My forever escape.

My Forever Escape l Liza Murtagh

13

Fog Taylor Sanderford

She was the spirits of my past dressed in a white coat, the stranger licked my hand and hissed at me, telling me she would soon find me in the pits of hell.

Her thick saliva lingered.

I felt her fangs, one on each of my fingers, the stranger’s sharp noise punctuated the sound of my death bed.

The distorted clock mimicked the stupor of her ripping apart my fingernails, one by one.

The spirits took my eyes and mirrored them with my dead sister hissing, terror, she moved slowly, her fangs moved to the next hand.

Till the devil surrounded me and stabbed me through my soul, the fire felt like corroded scapel scraping against me.

I saw her.

She told me we had arrived.

14

Sea Spray l Alexis Mearns

The Outsider Sara Paige Harvey

I am an outsider Alone Untouched Unnoticed I could be a shell washed away by the sea I could be a drop of rain flushed down into a storm drain I could be me, alone, afraid, and scared My thoughts swirl I feel alone I am alone I am tucked under the covers in the dark Laughter booms in my head My eyes peer open I am surrounded by girls Laughing, giggling girls I close my eyes I am alone I am an outsider

15

16

Hear No Evil; See No Evil l Sadie Campbell

Jagger van Vliet

Welcome to the dead end club A long time has gone by You were out and living On your own And we were waiting.

Why? Because you’re a member A forever member And a member cannot go and leave The dead end club is a never said thing Where anxiety is heavy and breathes.

The dead end club is a place that you come When there’s no one else left to confide in So the dead end club lets you And hears you And sees you Gives you a good place to survive.

17

Growth l Andrew Gramley

19

Webkinz In The Attic Isabella Santos

When I was younger, none of my names belonged to me. Yet, I was still able to make each of them my own.

I found my identity through the names SnowballThrower013, RecklessMelodyMaxwell, DaisyHorn, Pupcake, ZanyMoon, PrinceDaringScout, and my personal favorite, DuchessWindySeal. These were names I often believed were guiding me through my childhood when, in reality, I was guiding myself.

I found these titles on random name generators, belonging to every virtual game I played. Clicking on the “random” button before creating a new avatar often made four-year-old me feel like my future rested in the hands of fate, like everything happening behind my computer screen was destiny.

When I found out I was moving, my parents tried to console me, buying me my first Webkinz plush, a unicorn whom I named DaisyHorn. DaisyHorn became my best friend when real friends were scarce, and it was because of her, that I met Caty, the little blonde-haired girl across the street with a much more dedicated Webkinz count of two. Caty taught me that Webkinz toys came with a code you could enter online to create an animated version of your stuffed animal.

Before that moment, computers were something you never touched, and “online” was another world, reserved for Moms and Dads only. Finding Webkinz World was the peak of my preschool existence. From that point on, I spent every waking moment waiting to come home from school and run to Caty’s house. Laptop bag in hand, I had one thing on my mind.

A year later came kindergarten, light-up Sketchers, lost teeth and lots of older kids, who didn’t find Webkinz to be nearly as cool as I did. My new role models found Webkinz to be a child’s game, and they all spent their time on the much more sophisticated websites of Club Penguin, Pirates and Wizards 101, Poptropica, Animal Jam, and something completely foreign to me: the Xbox. The discovery of elementary schooler games became a revolutionary moment in my online world.

The next years of my life were drowned out by dozens of avatars, minigames, quests, and Estores. I spent every Sunday morning battling other ships in the Pirate 101 skyways, and every Saturday night trying to please Lego Indiana Jones by finding him the crystal skull. I realized I didn’t like games just including action or a single task. I was only fulfilled by in-depth character backgrounds, complex plots, and the feeling that I really had been transported to another universe. I yearned for graphics and detail, and was awestruck by how something so fake could seem so real.

As I got older, I realized I loved movies and could devour books, but they never provided me the satisfaction of interacting in the way my virtual games did. It was then I decided following along to someone else’s story was interesting, but it was creating my own that was my passion.

I longed to create and be in charge. I traded in my computer for paper and my mouse for a pencil. I started writing and telling stories, inventing characters whose lives I could shape just like those of my online avatars.

I spent all of my time transcribing my memories and videogame experience into words. My goals no longer included finding Captain Rockhopper’s lost key but were now objectives, like becoming the next Mary Pope Osborne or Carolyn Keene. I found something I loved through something so arbitrary and so addicting, but it was worth it. By fourth-grade, all of my Webkinz were in the attic, and my notebook was full.

20

Jump l Grace Haslam; Fancy Flamingo l Sadie Branch; Donkey l Audrey Sherman; Noodles l Lindsay West

21

Mack Webb

The wind howled on the barren dunes of Wrightsville Beach, stripping them of their looser grains of sand and whipping them around the unforgiving landscape. Colorless waves crashed onto a grey shore of cold wet sand, and with each crashing wave, more and more grey, cold sand was pulled out to sea. The sun was blotted out by a thin layer of cirrostratus clouds, desaturating the crests and valleys of the sand dunes below.

Jim Balloun had a plane to catch.

Jim, known affectionately to his grandchildren as “Buppa,” took one last look at his children’s slate-roofed wooden beach house in which he had been staying for the past week. Even with the weather as miserable as it was, he would’ve loved to stay for longer, but his business interests demanded him in Atlanta, and today was the day they had chosen to schedule his flight. The sheets of clouds loomed overhead, constantly shifting, but never enough to let any sunlight through.

Jim’s daughter rounded the corner with her son and his mouth curved upwards in a smile. He made his way down the grey, wood-grained steps to say his goodbyes. His daughter, Jill, hugged him tightly and wished him safe travels. He crouched down to do the same for his grandson.

Jill spoke softly, “Buppa’s plane takes off soon so he’s leaving in just a moment. Say ‘Bye, Buppa!’” His grandson looked at him, eyes wide, head cocked to the side in confusion.

“I’m going to miss you kiddo, but I’ll see you again at Christmas!” Jim patted his shoulder and stood up again.

“Bye, Dad,” said Jill. He turned to walk towards the driveway, but a small voice made him pause.

“Can Buppa help me hunt for the baby tiger?”

His grandson looked up at him expectantly, one arm tightly grasping his mother’s leg, the other stretched towards him, reaching out.

“I’m sorry, honey, but your Buppa has to go now.”

Jill nodded at him to go ahead and leave, but he was frozen.

“But, Mommy, we have to find the baby tiger!”

22

“Well, I can help you look if you want.”

“No, Mommy, it has to be Buppa!”

Jim smiled and stepped towards them. “It’s okay, Jill, I have some time before my flight leaves.” He crouched down, his eyes level with his grandson’s and took his hand. “Let’s go hunt for the baby tiger.”

“Okay, Buppa. Let’s go!” His grandson led him by the hand down the wooden walkway towards the beginnings of the dunes. They walked, hand in hand up the cresting hill that would lead to the sand dunes ahead. The grass and leaves growing in the soil brushing their ankles as they moved towards the beach. As they approached the top of the dune, Jim struggled to keep up with his grandson’s enthusiastic pace. Cresting the peak, Jim was amazed by what he saw before him, a sprawling lush jungle. His grandson led him by the hand, pushing past the foliage, into the rainforest. The warm sun glowed and sparkled through the canopy of leaves above them and the air quickly changed from cold and biting to warm, soft, and thick with moisture. Toucans and other exotic birds squawked and chirped overhead as the numerous tree frogs and toads filled their ears with a chorus of rippets and croaks. The sound of rushing water could be heard in the distance as the pair ventured further into the jungle.

“Look!” his grandson cried, “A baby gorilla!” Sure enough, a mother gorilla clutched her child close to her, unwilling to let her go, as she strode forth through the brush and flora. Jim pushed through a thick wall of vines and came upon a green valley.

“Is this where the baby tiger is?” he asked.

“No, “ his grandson replied, “This is where the baby giraffes are.” As they ventured down into the valley, a herd of giraffes rumbled past, a baby in their midst, clinging closely to the elder giraffes.

“Where can we find the baby tiger?” Jim asked.

“I don’t know. We have to keep looking,” his grandson replied matter-of-factly. Once again, Jim was taken by the hand and led further into the jungle.

The two of them identified animal after animal. They saw baby lions, lounging with the pack; baby parrots, tucked into their nests, being fed by their mothers;

even baby chameleons, who Jim could never see as they blended perfectly into the jungle, but his grandson could always pick out, resting on a tree branch. The two searched and searched, exploring every tree, every cave, every hill, and every valley, exploring everywhere Jim could think of, yet they never found the baby tiger.

After an hour of searching, combing the jungle for any sign of the baby tiger, Jim knew he had to leave.

He couldn’t miss his flight. They pushed through more and more leaves and vines before breaking through the other side of the jungle. In front of them, the rich soil gradually transitioned into grey, wet sand. Cold, colorless waves crashed before them, and the cold once more started to bite at their skin.

“Buppa, we have to go back! We have to keep hunting for the baby tiger!” his grandson pleaded with

feel the sand stinging his ankles as it was picked up by the wind and carried across the beach, and he didn’t want to think about his flight.

“Buppa, please don’t go.” He didn’t want to leave.

He wanted to stay, holding his grandson tightly forever, never letting go. He didn’t want to let go.

Don’t let go. Please don’t let go.

He let go.

Gently prying his grandson’s small arms from his torso, he stood, body shaking as he did it. A single drop of salt water slid down his grandson’s face, falling off of his chin onto the shore. He watched as the tide water rolled over it and carried it out to sea. A single drop floating in the churning, tumultuous chaos of the sea, alone.

Jim took his grandson by the hand and led him struggling and fussing, back from the shore, back over

him, eyes wide and blinking rapidly. Jim stared out at the ocean, at the endless expanse before him, then down at his grandson.

“I’m sorry. I have to leave, kiddo.”

“No!” His grandson rushed towards him and clung to his leg, burying his face in his khakis. “We have to keep looking! We have to find the baby tiger!”

Jim dropped to his knees and hugged his grandson, bringing his close to his chest. He held him tightly, as tightly as he could, his eyes squished shut. He didn’t want to see the ocean, he didn’t want to see the waves crashing in front of him, he didn’t want to hear the wind whistling through the reeds, he didn’t want to

the rolling hills and valleys of grey, unfeeling sand, back over the first hill they crested together, back over the grey wooden walkway, back to the slate-roofed, wooden beach house, back to his daughter. He said a hasty goodbye and got into his car.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back, he thought. He looked back at his grandson, his face wet with tears, his hair swept into knots by the wind, his eyes puffy, his nose runny, his hand holding his mother, his other hand stretched outward, toward Jim, reaching. And it broke his heart. And as Jim looked back he wished he hadn’t. And he wished he hadn’t left.

Eye of the Tiger l Aurelia Colvin

23

Summer Xia

My chubby fingers enthusiastically rotated the kaleidoscope, eyes glittering with colors. Kaleidoscopes were my favorite childhood toys: With each click, new patterns appeared. From a young age, I realized this world is a giant kaleidoscope with endless patterns of communication that I am inevitably compelled to discover.

Click. “Thank you,” Grandpa responded to me with tears circling in his eyes after he read my letter. Rotating the kaleidoscope, I recognized how words bring out emotions—the hot and golden tears of gratitude.

Click. “Joker Bomb!” My serious uncle surprised us when he slapped his big and little joker cards on the table and laughed. Rotating the kaleidoscope, I perceived how interactions create memories—the black and red cards of excitement.

As I grow, no longer am I satisfied by childhood observations. Instead I yearn to appear in the kaleidoscope of communications.

Click!

I tightened my chin, opened my shoulders, breathing in the moment of suspense right before my speech started. Fifty pairs of sun-like eyes shone with curiosity, illuminating the classroom with brightness and vigor. I was invited to share my experience studying in U.S high school with Chinese sophomores who wish to attend U.S. colleges. My audiences’ eyes enlarged at hearing of friendships I developed with my teachers. They laughed at my first Model UN conference—a fish navigating through unfamiliarities—and took notes busily while I explained college applications. In the exchange of questions, responses, and laughter, we connected. Our bonds and confidence strengthened as we continued communicating through online group chats I created. Verbal and online communication enabled us to cultivate friendships, resources, and knowledge.

24

Sidewalk Swirl l Charlotte Karanik

Click! Celadon is a traditional branch of Chinese porcelain. With a diligent craftsman ethic, I completed ten intricate but challenging steps needed to create Celadon. In the studio sits a steel spinning wheel and a pile of clay.

Across from the clay sits me—back bent, sweat dripping, arm veins protruding. After cupping the clay upwards with my palms, I pressed two thumbs into the center of the clay to make a hollow and watched it expand like a blossoming flower. Shape, reshape, improve. Over and over. After long and blazing hours, under my fingertips, a bowl, a jar, a plate, a bottle, quietly forms. When they are exhibited in public, they communicate my earnest devotion and creation to the world.

Knowing how to listen is vital to understanding communications. Listening helps me understand how the world delivers information.

Click! Searching for knowledge and answers, my friend and I interviewed people to learn their stories. From classrooms filled with paperwork to living rooms saturated in sunlight, I listened: My AP Language teacher overcame social anxiety by teaching; my 70-year-old friend found acceptance and love growing up as an orphan.

From heated track fields to narrow aisles on airplanes, I listened: a runner repeated prayers to finish Marathons; a traveler devoted herself to volunteering in Project Grace in China. I collected memories, deeds, and ideas through listening to people of different backgrounds. Asking thought-provoking questions allowed me to glance into peoples’ philosophies on life.

Through communicating, I explore, acknowledge, and understand. Communication inspires me: grandpa’s tears motivated me to explore moving stories; observing poker games taught me to read my audience; creating Celadon taught me perseverance. Absorbing ways to communicate enabled me to understand others, while using them to communicate allowed others to understand me.

With each click of the kaleidoscope, new patterns show up. I am a student who knows teachers’ philosophies on life and knowledge on subjects. I light up stages with enthusiasm and build clay models with creativity. Come to my badminton game and give me a passionate high-five. With a giant kaleidoscope in hand, there are many more excellent speeches to make, interesting stories to listen to, and intriguing patterns to explore.

Color l Sandro Pantano

25

Once My Gold Was Gone Sydney Cortina

“Why do you have to go?” I questioned my father desperately.

“I’ll be back in a few days, you’ll be fine,” he responded. My dad had been making multiple trips to New York. Both my mom and my dad were born and raised there. My grandparents lived there, too. I had begun to question why he had been making these trips so often. I knew he would prefer a much calmer place to visit, rather than crowded and busy New York.

I had just begun third grade. My classroom was small and quaint. The smell of pencil shavings and markers filled the air. I sat at a small table towards the front of the classroom. I had new friends and new teachers. I couldn’t wait to learn, but I was unaware of the real world and what goes on in it. I didn’t know how to deal with loss.

“Mom, why does Daddy have to go to New York?” I quivered as I asked.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, don’t worry about it,” she replied. My considerate and intelligent mom is like my best friend, and she would never want me to worry.

But, for some reason, I felt like I had to. Something was going on and I was determined to find out.

“Are Nana and Pop Pop okay?” I asked my mother.

“Well, you see, Nana hasn’t been feeling well and Dad has gone to help her,” my mother said with a worried look on her face.

“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” I responded.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” she replied. She looked relieved. As my little nine-year-old self, I didn’t worry too much about this. I believed my grandmother was going to be fine. My grandmother was a compassionate person who wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see her granddaughter.

Days passed, then weeks, my grandmother wasn’t getting better. I still remained optimistic and continued my journey as a contented little third grader. For my birthday, we visited my grandparents.

They lived in a small home on Long Island. The house was large enough to fit my Nana and Pop Pop 26

Clock Strings l Zealand Woditschka

comfortably along with their dogs. Their town was, and still is, extremely close-knit. It seemed as though everyone knew everyone. I always enjoyed visiting my dad’s hometown. I was so thrilled to visit my grandparents.

“Nana!” I exclaimed.

“Come here, Syd!” she responded, throwing her arms around me, “I am so happy to see you!” she said squeezing me as tight as she could.

That night my family threw a party to celebrate my birthday. I was super excited to open my gifts and eat some ice cream cake. Carvel, one of the most popular ice cream shops in New York, was my favorite! Carvel ice cream cakes always reminded me of my family up in New York. I opened my gifts from each of my family members. Then I noticed a small box, wrapped pink paper and tied with a red satin ribbon, sitting on the top of the fireplace.

I asked, “Is this for me?”

“Well of course it is,” said my grandmother. I took the small box and held it in my hand. I carefully peeled back the wrapping paper to reveal a small black box. I opened the box and within it was another box, but this time encased with green paper. On and on I went, opening more boxes, and becoming more impatient.

“Really?” I demanded in question.

“Come on, keep going!” my grandmother shouted.

I opened what seemed to be the last small black box, and two small diamond earrings sat sparkling in the light. I quickly thanked my grandparents, especially my Nana.

I still cherish those earrings to this day. They are not the biggest or fanciest earrings in any way, but they remind me of my grandmother, who I hold dearly in my heart today, and forever.

On October 18, 2014, my mom received a phone call from my dad, and she broke the news to me later that day. My grandmother had taken her last breath.

My grandmother’s passing really upset me; I was nine and I did not entirely understand the concept of loss.

Tears ran down my small, soft cheeks for days. I am older now, but I still think about my grandmother, her softness and sweetness towards others. I had such a close relationship with my Nana. I later found out my Nana died of lung cancer. I was absolutely devastated, but at the time I wasn’t entirely mature enough to

understand. As I got older, I could grasp more of what had happened, and I learned more about my grandmother’s life. She loved her family, friends, and her dogs. My Nana was always kind to animals, she had them all throughout her life especially to two of her pets, Brandy and Angel.

My dad wrote an article for the local hospital about her death and the impact of her absence on his life. Many employees of the hospital could relate to his mother’s passing. It’s hard to deal with the loss of a loved one, but it’s even harder to admit it. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for my dad to write an article about loss to thousands of people.

Through the loss of my grandmother, I have learned to view my past as a teacher. I don’t dwell on my past. I use my past to learn and benefit my future.

We all deal with loss, and it is something that we can all learn and grow from. I learned that nothing lasts forever and to enjoy every moment. My grandmother might not be physically on this earth anymore, but my memories of her will last a lifetime.

Dark Hallways l Allie Dvorzsak

27

The Imperfect of the World Anna Holt Basinger

Nothing gold can stay.

I see the world differently and slowly begin to let go of a perfect world I open my eyes and begin to see the worlds faults— kidnapping death murder evil— I don’t remember one event that made me see the world’s imperfections, but over and over every day a new crime, death, or murder is on T.V. or in the paper.

The astonishing, incredible world I saw as a child is still there, but vibrant colors begin to fade.

I see through the charming exterior and see the imperfect, the stuff we were shielded from as kids We didn’t know that we have to be careful around strangers.

We did everything without a worry.

We didn’t see the dark because the light shone only on the positive.

We were blind and only saw cheer and joy.

The cheers of family vacations and spending time with friends, the joys of going to the beach and driving on the boat, cheer and joy still surround me, but now I see the evil, too.

I am exposed to the pressures of life: expectations grades college.

I see my brother and sister stressing about SATs. I listen to my parents talk to them about college all the time.

The pressure to get into a good college and the idea that it affects the rest of your life Parts of my innocence are still there, but others are gone.

I still have cheer and happiness present in my life, but I let go of the idea of the world and everything in it being perfect.

28

Shattered Glass l Avery Bishop

29

The Boy or the Girl Anna Qiu

Sitting in the movie theater, I faded into the dark background and immersed myself in the surround sound.

Dragged from my cozy cloud, I was pulled into the screen projector inside the earthquake zone. Looking up, I saw nothing but dust from the collapsed buildings. Feet against the rubble, I limped towards the only source of sound.

A young woman whose face was covered with dirt, blood, and dilemma was standing beside two rescue crews who were impatiently questioning her.

“Ma’am, if we lift either side of the concrete, the child under the other side of the concrete will die. So which child do you want to save? The boy or the girl?”

Turning slowly away to avoid direct eye contact with her two children, the woman buried her face in her bleeding hands, then muttered, “the…the boy.” BANGGG, the concrete smashed the girl. *** Immediately, a force dragged me out of the screen projector by my collar, choking me. I fell back into my seat, breathing heavily for air. All I could see for the rest of the movie was the little girl’s face when she heard her mom.

Those big beautiful eyes, filled with shock and bitterness, penetrated through my skin and directly into my heart.

That movie haunted me day and night for at least half a year. Not only because it was based on a true story that happened earlier that year in China, but also because the girl and the boy buried under the concrete were around the same age as my younger brother and me. That year, I was seven, and my younger brother was five.

Growing up, I noticed that sons are always registered before daughters regardless of age on the residence booklet in China; grandsons are carriers of the family name; men are assumed to be better at science and sports.

Such Chinese social norms really made me question myself, my opportunities, and my purpose. Fortunately, despite the culture, my parents loved my brother and me equally and treated each of us fairly. Nevertheless, Chinese society has already rooted the fear of gender inequality deeply in my heart.

Luckily, studying abroad and immersing myself in a different culture offered me more opportunities to explore my abilities and potentials in spite of my gender. I can lead the Math Team as the captain like any other competent boy or girl. I can earn athletic awards that are also received by male students. I can participate in clubs, such as Bring Change To Mind. that enable me to claim a stronger sense of purpose as a woman. While working with that group on a fund-raising walk for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, one sign stood out to me: “Women are three times more likely to have suicidal thoughts than men.” This one sign sparked my interest in learning about the relationship between psychology and gender inequality.

After reading many studies online and taking AP Psychology, I started to see psychology as a powerful tool in coping with fear. I believe that knowledge about how our minds function will help identify the fundamental cause of gender discrimination and thus facilitate gender equality. My study of psychology gives me a purpose to help others identify who they are, overcome their mental health issues, and bring change to social injustices. And my experience studying abroad has strengthened my faith in myself and my desire to influence society.

Sitting in my room ten years later, I faded into the memory and immersed myself in the earthquake zone once again. This time, the dust that filled the air was not from the collapsed buildings but from the new society that’s under construction. A society where everyone is equal and everything is balanced. Where a young mother can hug both her son and her daughter without dilemma.

30

Falling of Spring l Zesong (Joseph) Wang; Snapseed l Brooks Meine

31

32

Unititled l Elena Crvendakic

Dangers Abroad Maya Arora

I found myself in a back alley, being escorted by two Russian security guards, as one does on a casual Wednesday afternoon. Maybe I should back up.

In the summer of 2015, my family and I embarked on one of my dad’s “educational” trips to the Baltics. Before we got off the cruise ship in St. Petersburg, my mom, fearing that I’m too outspoken and dangerous, pulled me aside and warned, “Russia isn’t like America. There are limitations on what we can say, so be careful not to criticize Russia while we are in the country.”

She elaborated on various forbidden topics: don’t criticize Putin, no political discussions, and no jokes about anything remotely related to Russia. When we departed from the ship, a massive security checkpoint awaited our arrival. Americans were not legally allowed to be in Russia by themselves; we needed a tour guide approved by the Russian government. After my mother handed over our documents to a Russian officer, we headed to our first stop: The Winter Palace.

Home of the Russian Tsars until 1917, the Winter Palace’s art and architecture were breathtaking reflections of Russian royalty. The museum showcased historical artwork from Monet and Pissarro, but it wasn’t until I began browsing Catherine the Great’s collection of German paintings that things took a turn. This museum was overcrowded with tourists, and I could barely shift six inches in any direction before bumping into a disgruntled stranger. Looking around in St. George’s Hall, I realized that I no longer had eyes on my family. Trying to figure out whether I had fallen behind my family or walked ahead of them, I turned around and around to look for them.

This was my first mistake.

After ten minutes of searching, I still hadn’t found them, but I could hear our tour guide talking in my ear-piece. The connection was intact, which meant they weren’t too far away. Then the connection went out. As a twelve-year-old girl by herself in a foreign country, let alone Russia, I began to panic. My mom’s warnings about the dangers of Russia flooded into my mind. The busy morning of security checkpoints and armed guards didn’t help to ease my fears either. My panic ballooned: would the Russian officials help me find my parents? What if they thought I was a spy? Could I possibly be lost in Russia forever?

Eventually, I wiped my tears and devised a plan to borrow someone’s phone to call my dad’s “emergency cell.”

However, no one around me spoke English. I thought that surely, I would find some American tourists, but then I remembered how determined Russia was to limit the number of Americans there. After about fifteen minutes of harassing irritable strangers, I finally found someone willing to lend me their phone. I called my dad and got his voicemail. I called again and got his voicemail. I tried calling one last time, and finally, I got his voicemail. The tears came rushing back, but the gears in my mind began to turn even faster.

My next plan required finding a museum worker, and after 20 minutes of searching, I found two security guards. I brilliantly decided to put all my faith into these two tall, hefty, not-at-all-friendly-looking, Russian men.

In between my bursts of frantic sobbing, I managed to spit out that I lost my family. After prodding me with questions, they eventually said in broken English, “We’re going to take you the back way.”

That didn’t sound good.

They explained that they’d take me to the front office, where they keep the typical lost jackets and abandoned children. Following them with hesitation, I started to realize the severity of my situation. I was a young girl, walking through deserted stairwells and back alleys, with no means of communication, with two strange men, in Russia, which is the place where scary things can happen. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever see my parents again. Growing up in the United States, my perception of Russia had always been surrounded by fear and mystery. Disparaging talk of communism and Russian spies was all I had heard about the country at that point in my life, which only intensified my fears regarding the outcome of my sticky situation.

About four hours later, my tears of fear turned into tears of joy; I was reunited with my family. Now at seventeen years old, I look back on this experience with a deeper understanding of the cultural distinctions between America and Russia. While my family and I later explored the city, I noticed that the physical realities of Russia weren’t so different from what I grew up with in America. We strolled down streets bustling with people shopping and socializing. We dined at a crêpe cafe and later took a ferry across the river. Despite these lively activities, the air felt tense. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was under constant surveillance, that as a twelve-year-old girl wearing braids and a pink raincoat, I was somehow a threat.

I’m still astonished by how so few people across the world are able to feel the sense of freedom and security that I do when I’m walking down the street in Wilmington, North Carolina. I only contemplated the possibility of losing that peace of mind for a few short hours, but in that time, I gained enough gratitude to last a lifetime.

33

Jagger van Vliet

Oh wondrous world Oh hell does it burn This youth they are trying But we won’t let them learn They are dangerous souls With psychotic young minds That they’d ever attempt To see through, we are blind We must put them away For they don’t knowing the meaning So we keep on abusing Attacking, demeaning To change all the world It’s a laughable matter For they cannot do it It’s all just their chatter So keep them locked up Yes, we’ll keep them entwined They are all hopeful Young dangerous minds

34

GRACE HASLAM

Incognito l Harrison Steven

35

I am a Flower Alena Gianoplus

I trace my hand along the lightly furred stem of the flower.

Its blossoms are lightly colored eager to see the world.

I want to see the world, too, so I carefully uproot the flower and plant it in my garden.

I watch the flower grow and wither throughout the seasons.

Twenty years later I stand the darkest season of my life, and I realize I am a flower, too, who will go through seasons of light and darkness but who will always be alive, and no matter how bad the weather gets, I will stand.

38

Optimism l Makena Scanlon

Abigail Smith

It’s a funny thing to be asked what we would change about the world if we could.

They told us to sit in silent solitude and write down our solutions.

I could not think of anything, so I described the scene: I cannot see the stream, but I can almost hear the coolness of the water as it flows constantly down the valley.

Breathing in the soft mountain breeze, I can feel the refreshing splashes without touching them; just by listening.

I remember my childhood clearly, yet distortedly.

When I was seven, my best friend was a little girl who seemed absolutely perfect.

We played pretend, two fairies flying through the forest in my backyard.

The kaleidoscope shapes of sunlight feel warm through the trees, their forms changing as the wind blows the leaves.

I listen to the water as it flows through the rocks.

It sounds like the stone fountain on my grandmother’s back porch; dripping cooly, splashing lightly.

She had to move away.

Saddened, I missed my friend, but I still flew around as a fairy in the forest.

I did not always like being outside; I’d feel hot and dirty.

But today, the stream sounds fresh, and the sunlight feels warm.

I know now that she moved away because she lost her mother.

She didn’t know what happened to her, but one day she was gone.

The breeze blows lightly.

If I look up through the valley, following the stream with my ears, I can imagine that it goes on and on, as far as the forest can reach.

Now that I am grown, I recognize the flaws of society and the dangers of insecurity.

Nostalgia for what I thought was reality burdens me.

Sitting on a stone in silent solitude, I notice the stream.

I do not usually notice beautiful things.

Growing up has taught us to view the world in a negative light.

Life is not as perfect as we once perceived it to be.

But we can still appreciate the beauty.

The stream, even in the most treacherous of storms, moves forward through the valley gracefully.

If there is one thing we can change about our world, it is to notice beautiful things.

It is to move forward.

Gracefully.

As the stream.

39

Outside, Inside Sydney Cortina

Inside, a warm and friendly place a place where you never feel alone, a place that feels like home.

I can picture this place.

What a wonderful space, where I never feel alone.

Outside is cold and lonely and where my thoughts are freed of glory.

No one knows how far from home we really, truly are.

Inside, the summer days, where the sun kisses your skin. a place that feels, a place that heals your thoughts from within.

Outside, once more I am.

My emotions are smacked with the palm of a hand.

I am outside.

They are inside.

But, I still don’t understand.

Inside, this is where I want to be. when I’m outside and they’re inside myself I cannot be.

I see a normal girl surrounded by the world of which she wants to hide in and of which others thrive in.

Outside nor inside, we’re all somewhere in between.

40

Convergence l Maeve Kelly

41

42

Sun Study l November Woditschka; Complicated Silence l Maeve Kelly

Pearce Lewis

Dodging flying butter-pats and cherry tomatoes, I escaped the food fight my friends instigated in the dining hall and began my trek back to the Mohican Cabin. Even in June, the crisp mountaintop breeze raised the hairs on my arms, and while trekking across the Camp Cheerio campus to beat the 12:30 curfew, I longingly pictured the white fluffy hedgehog blanket that awaited me in bed. After a week of dedicating every ounce of energy to entertaining twelve-year-olds, that image only served to further intensify my yearning for sleep.

Opening my cabin door, I was greeted by the glaring “EXIT” sign light that illuminated every campers’ face. I mustered the energy to brush my teeth, and immediately dropped into bed and swaddled myself.

Two seconds passed, and I heard a meek, “Pearce?” I’d be lying if I said a couple of choice words didn’t run through my mind in that moment.

Groaning, I sat up and shuffled to my camper’s bedside, “Hey Eve. What’s up?”

“I’m having some bad thoughts, can we talk?”

Sighing internally, I whispered, “Sure Eve, let’s go outside.”

Shaking myself awake, I grabbed a blanket to bundle my camper and left the omnipresent green glow. We sat on the porch. During the next forty-five minutes, Eve talked about feeling worthless, not wanting to live, seeing her friend physically harm herself, and considering doing the same. Time lost meaning. As I emphasized the importance of her artistic talents, her ability to be there for her friends, and her thoughtful creations--she had drawn me a hedgehog--I realized that nothing else mattered.

Speaking with Eve was single-handedly the most altering moment of my life. Rotating between hugging her, listening, and speaking, I slowly watched Eve regain confidence in herself. My eyes filled to the brim with tears many times while hearing about this

little girl wanting to commit self-harm. Although the clock read 1:30 a.m. by the time we finished talking, I wasn’t ready to go to sleep. I needed to continue reassuring this girl that she is loved, appreciated, and precious.

Earlier, my own wants and needs consumed me; I had forgotten about the struggles that my twelve-year-olds endure. I had learned about empathy before, but in this moment, I lived it.

My parents taught me to live my life through the Christian acronym J.O.Y.: Jesus first; Others second; Yourself last. The bustle of everyday life can overtake this message and render it useless.

However, my talk with Eve reminded me that sometimes the most valuable thing I can do is to support others. Even though I won’t be with her outside of camp, and I can’t be there to aid her in overcoming her adversities, what I can do is to utilize the time I do have to emphasize that I will always be advocating for her and reminding her that she is loved.

That night, sleep was the sole object of my attention until Eve woke me up. She opened my eyes to the importance of putting others before yourself. Every person struggles through life. I can help alleviate this, however, by selflessly directing my attention towards them to support their journey.

Since Eve, I am more cognizant about lifting up my friends and peers and making them feel loved.

Whether that be lending an ear, giving a spontaneous gift, or simply hugging someone, I strive daily to prioritize others above myself.

I believe in the importance of utilizing your strengths to help others in their moments of vulnerability, no matter the circumstance.

So, the next night, instead of rushing to climb under my warm covers, I slowed down, and checked each girl’s bed to give them a sense of peace before collapsing into my own.

43

44

Hosts l Grace Haslam

45

Quid Est Humanis?

Sasha An

Humanum est errare “To err is human” We’re Imperfect Oh Seneca, But that’s a generalization.

Many things are imperfect All beings are flawed...

What then, est humanis?

Compassion.

Does the timberwolf not split the precious kill she has made to benefit the rest the young the weak?

Attraction to beauty.

Does the magpie not halt its duties when it spies a glimmer in the rough collecting the treasure for admiration?

Greed.

Does not the grey squirrel hoard his acorns stash them deep under the safety of ground for another day?

Intelligence to adapt.

Do octopi not melt in color of their skin to blend with rock and coral hiding or hunting?

Value of family.

Do the pride lions not play the old and the young in the heat day after day in the bright sun?

Advanced building skills.

Does the songbird not build a woven haven for he and his to shelter and raise to depart again?

Leisurely activities.

The sea otter does not float on her back and join with others in joyous games?

Ability to grieve.

The great African elephant does not mourn the loss of her child taken in body by chance, but not by memory?

Communication over breadth.

Do not the trees with their crowded roots send nutrient messages to one another across miles of mushroom?

Transportation speed.

Can not the wings of the peregrine falcon dive and curve at two hundred and forty miles per hour?

Self-constructed failure?

We think of ourselves as the very top of the animal kingdom-an enlarged thinking crown making us into thinkers, creators.

But we are in truth the most fragile beings in terms of intellect.

We are held back from greatness, not from physical setbacks, but mental, psychological ones.

We set our own goals, our own dreams.

But sometimes, we pressure ourselves and rely so heavily on our theoretical successes, we deteriorate our own wellbeing and quality of life.

We forget that there is such a thing as appreciating the essentials, the simple joys.

Self-absorption?

We are amazingly capable of our own unique version of oblivion. We become so wrapped up with the little emotions and problems we make in our own heads, we fail to recognize the struggling of others, when they need it most.

Our favorite conversation topic is ourselves.

We feel the need to talk about ourselves so badly, we hire people to listen to our problems.

Existentialism? We seem to have a very broad understanding of the world, so much so we have explored past the limits of our atmosphere.

And even then, we seek a greater understanding, searching for answers and notions that we have a greater purpose, whether in religion, extraterrestrial beings and science, or simply being part of a lasting cause.

We yearn to explore the unknown because of our desire to discover, but we sometimes fail to recognize the beauty of simplicity, the beautiful world around us we have seemingly become bored with.

What if our only purpose is to exist?

Perhaps it is to recognize the beauty in simplicity.

The animals and plants are all part of their own Simple existence, yet complex relationship with earth.

After all, have they not been here for longer than we?

Pandemic Pandemic lSydney l Sydney Cortina Cortina 47 47

Katie Meine

One of my most vivid memories as a kid is my parents reading to me every night. At age three, a typical Meine family household evening looked like this: 6:00: Dinner, prepared by my mother and consumed rapidly, despite the barrage of age-old aphorisms such as “Slow down, or you’ll choke” tossed our way.

6:10: Clearing of the dishes, followed by a quick jumping on the couch.

6:20: Injury and the games cease.

6:21: Boo-boo blown on, and the entropy resumes its regularly scheduled program.

6:30: Sleep-obsessed mother announces bedtime. Our riled-up-selves protest and refuse for the next bit. Slowly, but surely, we trudge our way to the bathroom.

7:15: After nearly 45 minutes of struggle and procrastination, my brother and I are freshly bathed and brushed, with only minimal traces of soap left in our hair and the sugary taste of children’s toothpaste in our mouths.

7:16: Jumping on the master bed ensues, subsiding only when my father and mother tell us we’re going to read.

7:20: Bedtime. After getting settled in under the covers, my brother and I listen as my father reads us a story.

Originally, the nightly stories began with the classic tales of not one, but two fish, and a bald kid with a purple crayon who was obviously too young for such responsibility. However, as my brother and I grew up, the stories became more complex. We eventually ripped through the Harry Potter series at age 5 and 7, not by reading it ourselves, but by listening to the voice of my dad. Sometimes we’d read our own books after he’d read a few chapters of the family book we were flying through at the time. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep as he read, and we’d mercilessly pinch the poor man to wake him up and continue the story. Sometimes, we’d read the story out loud. And eventually, communal storytime disappeared as Brooks and I moved on to silently reading our respective chapter books.

But, each night, for as long as I can remember, the whole family reading in my parents’ bed at night was a way of life.

As I’ve grown older and good old hindsight has allowed me to reflect on my parents’ choices, I keep looking back on something huge that they did for me. Like many important things, it seemed minimal at the time, but this action made an enormous impact: they caused me to love reading. I’m not sure how purposeful this was; I have no clue if they were secretly plotting the whole time to inculcate in their children a passion for books, or if it just kind of happened that way, but I believe without a doubt, that it was one of the best things they did for me.

Of course, over the years, nearly every English teacher has carried on about the values of books...how they help your mind, your spirit, your emotions, etc. And it doesn’t take a genius to understand that there are real, tangible benefits to reading. However, despite the numerous PSAs and lectures I’ve listened to over the years, my conscious value of reading actually originated elsewhere.

48

My grandfather is one of the smartest, most inspiring people I know. He’s 6 feet tall, making him the tallest in the family by a multitude of inches (his height got lost in translation, I guess), and reminds me of the old man from the movie Up, mixed with Hans Hubermann from The Book Thief, mixed with Papa Smurf. He cannot tell a lie nor can he read a map, but any deficiencies in character (if they could be called that) are more than made up for by his calming presence, humor, and, most of all, intellect. He graduated from Yale, was a radiologist for the military, and currently participates in a rather eclectic Bible group involving two Protestants, a Catholic, and two Jews. One day, when I was little, I asked him, “What is the best thing you can do to be successful?” and he replied with a simple answer: “Read.”

You don’t have to read Dickens or Austen, Hemingway or Shakespeare to become smarter. You just have to pick up any old book and begin. And, I know that the opportunity cost of reading is high. In a world filled with technology, it’s easier to look at your phone for an hour than it is to stare at black words on a white page. But it’s worth it.

Not only will you enhance your reading speed, comprehension, and critical thinking skills, you might just enjoy it.

Bird Collage l Arrison Moya

49

Your Piece Lilly Chiavetta

A beautiful picture destroyed by a missing piece.

There is no substitute, that piece is unique, one of a kind so everything is ruined.

And yet, you cannot lose hope.

Even if it takes hours weeks months, the never-ending search continues.

And then it’s there.

So simple.

It’s a wonder how you didn’t see sooner.

So you return it to its rightful place perfectly fitting among the rest.

And there they all are.

Together.

Your piece is no longer missing and the puzzle is complete.

50

Sunrise Colors l Bella Erichsen

Esta Noche-Tonight Bella Jacobs

Esta noche me recuerda de ti La Luna hermosa como su amistad Las estrellas brillantes como tu sonrisa Las mareas amables que me recuerdan tus ojos Te quiero como la luna añoras para el sol Pero yo no te merezco Yo no merezco tu alma inocente Yo no merezco tus ideas creativas Pero yo sueño que un dia, voy a ver tus ojos amables Yo sueño que un día tú vas volver por mi Mas yo se tu mente inteligente nunca va a volver Así me voy a quedar esta noche recordándote

Tonight reminds me of you The beautiful moon shines like your kindness The stars that sparkle like your smile The lovely tides that reminded me of your eyes I want you like the moon yearns for the sun But I don’t deserve you I don’t deserve your innocent soul I don’t deserve your creative ideas But I dream that one day, I will see your loving eyes I dream that day you will return to me But your intelligent mind will never dare to return That’s why I’ll stay here tonight remembering you

Sunset Solitude l Davis Kranchalk

51

An Open Letter Jagger van Vliet

This is an open letter to all that I see. I am not even an adult and already I feel a surging wave of hopelessness for the future, and at this point, I have no other outlet to turn to other than the ability to speak out. I should not feel hopeless. The view of the future should not be bleak, daunting, and depressive.

And yet, here we are. It is 2020. I live in a country that preaches the miraculous invention of freedom that we fail to uphold. I’m not speaking on our basic freedoms either. Basic freedoms that are constitutionally imprinted into our everyday life and are somehow disregarded in the everyday. I speak about the freedom to be hopeful. The freedom to feel positive. The freedom to feel a change can be made. This is an open letter, to acknowledge the freedom we have lost in a world of hate, and greed. This is an open letter to you.

Make the change. Be the change. We are the future.

In light of the pressing times, it is pertinent to address the matter at hand. Racism. It pains me for I have been raised a loving person in a culture where this view is less than acceptable. That is not to say all people are inherently racist, but my hopelessness is furthered each time I see a woman mutter under her breath as a black man walks by, or an old man curse at a black woman as she goes about her life. I have grappled with the question of why for much of my life. I can only imagine how much these “whys” must be elevated when you are the one being oppressed.

The plain truth of the matter is that I don’t know how it feels. I cannot understand, and it is arrogant to assume I will ever understand. That does not stop me, however, from feeling a morsel of that pain. A stabbing burst of anger when I watch a child I know grow up in a family who knows nothing but intolerance. I feel increasingly dejected as another generation of hurting and hating humans are brought forth in front of my eyes. I watch my friends grapple with this mix of emotions. From a white teenager’s perspective, I have watched as friends come to terms with the horrendous idea that their parents, that they assumed could do no wrong, are innately outdated, and racist. This is the reality, and though it pains me to see a generation of children turn blindly and forever embark on the same route their parents did, I hold out hope for the fraction that comes to understand the truth. The truth that there is absolutely no place in this world for discrimination, and there is no way they will participate in that oppression, even if it means casting 52

aside all the teachings of their omniscient guardians. I speak from my own accounts of the matter and thus I will leave my views on the obvious and overwhelming racism of this country here.

And so we come to the solution. There are admittedly many solutions, and I have hope we will find and implement them all. But above all, we must learn to love. Desperation is easy to feel with love being the ultimate answer. How can we all love? How is it that we can set aside such inevitable conflict? But if we can do away with the hate, the greed, and the lust for power, love comes without conflict. These negative guardians of views long past are the barriers keeping us from empathy. Hatred, greed, power, stop us from the compassion that is the human way. We have lost the human way. We have become desensitized to it all. We watch innocent children slaughtered in their schools and innocent black men and women abused simply for their race. We watch this and we go about our day. This is not the human way. If we were not so lost, we would weep in the streets for the horrors we observe. We would scream for the voiceless, and march for those who are no longer there to march. If we were not so lost we would seek to change a system we know is flawed. That is why I have hope. I have hope because slowly, but surely, we are making change in the name of love. We are making change for good, with or without the permission of our parents, government, or culture. In the end, I see a light. The light of the youth, of the brave, of the loving. I see the bright shining sun of compassion and it’s getting closer every day. I have hope because we have realized the corruption of an older generation, and we are determined to never go back that way. We will not repeat history. Our children will not turn to this page in their history books and wonder how we went backward, they will see that those who believed in love, and empathy changed the world. They will see the path we paved in the ruins of the older ways. They will not have to fear or feel hopeless as we did. They will know that we made the change. We are today’s future. But we are forever’s change. We the youth in order to form a more perfect world will take a stand now and always.

This is an open letter to the youth of the world: Never stop fighting.

Never stop loving.

Never stop believing.

We are the change.

We are the good.

We are the future.

Peaceful Dreaming l Aurelia Colvin

53

Brooks Meine

She was a teacher with no children, her husband shot in the Civil War. While he rested she was restless, she owned a cottage, nothing more.

One day she had a plan, it was more daring than most.

She was lacking fame and fortune, but this stunt would earn her both.

She prepared her wooden barrel, putting pillows and leather inside.

Because her life depended on it, and she planned to survive.

If it worked she’d be the first, but she wasn’t the first to try.

She prayed that God would save her, if not, she knew she’d die.

A boat towed her to the falls, and then they cut her loose.

She had a flash of panic, but there was nothing she could do.

Upside down and sideways, became one and the same.

Water seeped into her coffin, and she felt intense pain.

Twenty minutes in the barrel, and quite a perilous ride.

But when her barrel washed to shore, she lay happily inside.

The barrel hit a rock that day, and it came close to breaking.

But the two hundred twenty five foot fall, left her not dead, just shaking.

The cameras flashed and she smiled, she knew she wasn’t worthless.

Her few minutes of fame and glory, had helped her find her purpose.

54

Take Action l Hunter Hawking

55

Colophon

Body text is Minion Pro: Most headline font and all name attribution font are Century Gothic. Other headline font used: Brittanic Bold. The magazine is free of charge to the school community. The High Tide staff has access to three Dell desktops. We are grateful for the school’s support in covering printing expenses. Our publisher is Printworks, Wilmington, North Carolina. We used 100# cover stock for the cover and 100# text stock for the inside pages. High Tide was created using Adobe InDesign CC 2019 and Adobe Photoshop CC 2019. Cape Fear Academy belongs to the following professional organizations: National Council of Teachers of English, North Carolina English Teachers Association, North Carolina Scholastic Media Association, and the National Assocation of Independent Schools.

Editorial Staff 2019-2020

Lead Editors: Andrew Gramley l Joey McGarry Poetry Editor: Brooke Sanderford Prose Editor: Mack Webb Art Editor: Lindsay West Asst. Art Editor: Grace Haslom Photography Editor: Ramsay Trask l Alexis Mearns Design Editor: Lauren McWhinnie l Alden Forkin Asst. Design Editor: Natasha Matt Marketing: Julia Johnston Staff: Arryn Baginski l Addie Bloom l Liza Collie l Lilly Chiavetta l Audrey Dahl l Jagger van Vliet

Administrative Support Shana Barclay Ed Ellison Trisha Ellison Lynne Kenney Amy Tarallo Gene Whipple Carla Whitwell

Faculty Support

Editorial Staff 2020-2021

Lead Editors: Lilly Chiavetta l Natasha Matt Asst. Editor: Jagger van Vliet Design Editors: Julia Johnston l Betsy Porter l Makenzie Mills Art Editors: Aurelia Colvin l Bella Erichsen Staff (US): Audrey Dahl l Erik Franklin l Allie Haslam Connor Slaughter (MS): Mary Gibbs l Sydney McElroy l Tessa Zucker

Advisors

Emily Fancy Maureen Vanscoy

Financial Support

Cape Fear Academy

Kelly Borton John Branka Cole Dittmer Ben Fancy Jessica Gaskill Mandy Hamby Amanda Holliday Bill Kanzinger Teresa Lambe Liz Mendonca Becky Mills Paul Pindt Jan Reid Lisa Rojek

Editorial Policy

High Tide literary and arts magazine is an official publication of Cape Fear Academy. Any of the approximately 415 middle and upper school students (grades 6-12) are encouraged to submit their work to the magazine. Students submit their work during an open submission period. Submissions are blind: a student’s age, gender, grade level, and race are not disclosed during the selection process.

The editorial staff meets bi-monthly outside of the academic day. The adjudication process extends from fall to early spring. On March 17, 2020, our school went remote and publishing prospects ceased for 2019-2020. In the fall of 2020, with masked faces and sanitized hands, the new staff, as appointed by the advisors, evaluated the prior year’s pieces and solicited new submissions from CFA’s student body. The staff adjudicated pieces based on voice, style, creativity, and artistic merit. All submitted work is eligible to be published in the magazine. Pieces may be edited for grammar or space, but the content is not changed.

64

Pack it Up l Tessa Zucker; Purple Pack l Mary Gibbs; Cameron Commons l Elliot Wells

Strawberry Bliss l Aurelia Colvin

63

Diamond Flower Faye Riebe

A full grown flower has wilted now, but it left its seeds for others to find.

Once a sky-scraper standing tall, smelling of a simple rose, looking like a pink pearl in a sea of green grass, has now sprouted into something more.

The seeds it left have grown the tallest, with petals as bright as a heart in love.

The sweet scent of a full bouquet tied in a silver bow, shining like a diamond with the sparkling sun reflecting off the crystal dew.

The whispers off the butterflies zipping past, and the bees that would not dare give a sting, for this flower turns the heads of all creatures traveling by.

Oh simple rose, who once gleamed in the park without a care in the world, you have now been lost, but I hope to one day admire you again.

And for you my dear diamond flower, I will forever hold on tight.

Blue Ridge Mountains l Riley Lallathin

61

fingers would often become sore, and my grandmother would force me to stop playing for the day. Finally, the night before my flight back home to Memphis, TN, my grandfather knocked on my bedroom door. I knew it was my grandpa as only he knocks with such force that makes the house wonder if someone is at the front door. He walked through the door as I watched the pictures on the wall ever so slightly shake. Leaning against the old-timey flower wallpapered walls he tells me, “Your lessons will start on the Monday you arrive home.”

It was here that I realized how persistence created success.

And within time, practice, and most importantly persistence, my time came to perform Chopin’s Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor a year later. It was a frigid December night. My suit was as black as the winter night, my bowtie as white as winter’s snow, and my shoes glinted off of the dim lighting on stage. As I walked out to meet a proud piano, I was greeted with cold air and the boastful applause of a rather small but dedicated audience. I adjusted the glossy black stool

of the Yamaha grand piano and plopped down in its center. I began to have slight trouble with adjusting the sheet music as my hand started to tremble. To remedy this, I inhaled the frigid air until my diaphragm could no longer expand from underneath my suit. I straightened my back until a slight arch formed, and I placed my dominant right foot on the far right pedal of the piano, the dampener. This time, however, I know what the damper does. Mimicking the Russian, I raised my arms and placed my spider-like fingers on the pale ivory keys. I paused for a moment.

And out of the dimly lit and scarcely populated auditorium, I could hear the muffled sounds of noise trying to escape from my fingers.

C-Sharp Minor to C-Sharp Minor 7 to F-Sharp Minor back to C-Sharp Minor to E-Major to G-Sharp Minor and a finish on C-Diminished.

Beautifully. Haunting.

Shallow Space l Elena Crvendakic

59

Bikes

Pierceson Squires

The road was too slippery for bikes on that cold November day.

He hadn’t known nor did he care.

She followed him, as always.

Through all of their hardships, through their struggles, she was there, following, at his heels.

She hadn’t realized the danger their love had put them both in.

To her, that danger was worth it.

One day, the boy was riding, faster and faster down that winding road, she tried to keep up with him, although the twists and turns were trying to stop her.

She fell. He continued on.

That one day, the road was too slippery for bikes.

Machine Art l Elena Crvendakic

57

Parts of One Whole Sasha An

You, four parts of one whole.

You fill the oceans with brilliant sapphire hues Give a home to all—at least those that can swim You push the rivers that yield the summer views And life that inhabits the world, wide or slim You take on many forms all around us Whether liquid, solid, or gas remain We could not go a day, much less discuss

How you even find you inside our veins You combat darkness with your primitive light Kept us safe from predators long ago You create brilliant heat to the chill of night Allow to cook things in your red glow Your magic, if told, would be believed a myth You make warmth from cold, as from nothing But your great power is not to be messed with

Though captivating, you’re not for touching You are the breath of life inside the lungs Of every thing that inhabits the world Swirling crystal snowflakes that meet our tongues Start the currents of ocean water, first curled You take on color to paint the sky above, From rich reds, to pure whites, yet still it’s you Despite being unseen, you wrap us like a glove Always with us, starting every day anew

You make the trees that sway in the night breeze When new life begins in the ground, you’re there You lay peaceful, such as in a winter freeze Spread across vast lands, beautiful and fair You are the rocks that form the art of nature’s past Possessing greater wisdom than we could dream And though your suffering over time is vast Rightfully earned, your respected esteem

60

Hand in Hand l Eden Rienks

The Russian Pianist Joseph Politi

From the back of a beautifully ornate French cathedral in Paris, I watch with anticipation as a Russian adjusts the glossy black stool of a Yamaha grand piano.

The piano sits alone in the dark amidst the grandeur of the gothic cathedral. The pianist wears a black dress as dark as the current night with white polka dots littered throughout the lower half of her gown. She straightens her back until a slight arch forms and places her dominant right foot on the far right pedal of the piano, the dampener. Although I knew very little about the piano at that moment, I knew the damper pedal was used to soften the music to where the notes could flow immaculately between each other similar to the movement of water. And lastly, it is here that I realize that this woman is no ordinary Russian. Her hands stretch out similar to the roots of a growing tree as she places them on the ivory keys of the piano. She places them in such a flawless manner that one realizes, That is something only a pianist can do. I hold my tense breath waiting for a sound.

And finally, out of the dimly lit and scarcely attended cathedral, I hear the muffled sounds of noise escaping from the Russian’s fingers.

C-Sharp Minor to C-Sharp Minor 7 to F-Sharp Minor back to C-Sharp Minor to E-Major to G-Sharp Minor and a finish on C-Diminished.

The first chords of Frederic Chopin’s Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor fill the entirety of the cathedral’s emptiness. As she continues performing the music, I begin to take note of the vastness of the French cathedral smelling the humidity in the air. From the pianist’s black dress to the black gloss of the piano, to the faint light of the cathedral, to the emptiness of the crowd, and to the solemn music of Chopin’s Nocturne I begin to describe the experience to myself as, “beautifully haunting.” Finally, the Russian pianist ends the piece as she climbs the E-Flat Major Scale to the tip of the keyboard and back down. She does this again, but this time the music becomes softer and feels almost magical as she ends the piece with both spider-like fingers on the C-sharp key. Upon completion there is no clapping; she simply moves on to the next piece in 58

her repertoire.

After the performance, my grandfather and I walked out of the cathedral’s 15-foot dark oak doors with gargoyles flanking its side onto the cobblestone street. Above us, the stars twinkle similar to the Russian’s black polka-dotted dress while the infinite abyss of space fills in the gaps between these celestial bodies. It was here that I presented to my grandfather, who is an avid romantic era music listener, something along the lines of, “I think I should try to do some piano lessons or something.” Instead of the profound response I was expecting, he replied with a sarcastic, “Or something.”

It was here I knew I wanted to play the piano.

Two days later, my grandparents, brother, and I returned to California where they own a beautiful home in the mountains that overlook the Silicon Valley. The moment I step into the house, I immediately walk over to their grand piano with haste. It stands alone in the middle of an empty room flanked by 9-foot windows that reveal a stunning view of the valley. As I begin to tinker with the eighty-eight keys unfettered and unaware of what my fingers were doing, my grandmother arrives on the scene. My grandma is a clever and unrelenting woman, all the more perfect for teaching me a little piano. Over the course of a few days, my dainty grandmother helped me learn how to read the music, where the notes are, and proper technical skills.

Although my grandfather, at this point, is still hesitant to respond to my frequent pleas for lessons, he comes into the room with a dining chair and proceeds to watch us like an eagle in its nest, mysterious, cautious, and watchful.

It is here I realize the importance and value of persistence.

From Mid-morning to Afternoon to Mid-afternoon to Evening to Late evening, I played piano religiously. The rate at which I was learning to play was exponentially increasing. My sweet grandmother would assign me songs to play every week. Within a snap of a finger, I would master them with near perfection. I played so much piano my

What to do with Forgiveness Sanders Lewis

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night. All it once, everything was gone.

The crying. The sadness. The anxiety. The joy. A never ending blanket that was colored a black that could suck away any remaining light was on top of me pushing me into an emotionless hole. The only thing left, although it didn’t quite feel real. The motivation to continue pushing back on that blanket is slowly slipping away. Leaving me stagnant, under my once comforting sheets.

Unable to move.

My mom asking me, “What happened to my little ball of sunshine?” playing on repeat in my mind shakes me to my core. Those words hit me harder than 10,000 pounds of bricks. Hearing that made my heart hurt. I wish I could scream, “I’m so sorry I’ve let you down” 1,000 times over. But for some reason, I just can’t. My mouth opens, longing to hear myself apologize for all the times I’ve hurt my loved ones, but then it closes again, unable to verbally admit my wrongdoings.

Feeling powerless and defeated, being inadequate to express my feelings, I fall deeper into the hole, reaching, soundlessly screaming for help. My arm extended for any assistance I can find, only to fall deeper.

On my way down, my hand catches on the smallest, sturdiest ledge. My sister. She walks into my room, as if it were her own. Any of our past disagreements are forgotten. She’s home from college. Already talking a mile a minute, “I love you, I missed you so much!” I begin to pull myself up. The assistance of her words helps. Inch by inch. Even when she leaves, I can already tell. The only way to go is up. I have never been so thankful.

56

The Growth of Empathy l Nadya Kotlyarevska

Awards and Honors 2019-2021 Art Awards

Writing Awards

2020-2021

2020-2021

Head of School's Purchase Award Sydney Cortina, 2022 Elena Crvendakic, 2021 Delilah Mills, 2021 Excellence in Visual Art Award Nadya Kotlyarevska, 2024 Elliot Wells, 2022 Eastern NC Scholastic Art Awards November Woditschka, 2022, Gold Key Elena Crvendakic, 2021, Honorable Mention Elizabeth Hodgden, 2021, Honorable Mention

English Department Award Will Dahl, 2021 Bellamy Koonce, 2021 Barbara Proctor Award Sasha An, 2021 High Tide Award Lilly Chiavetta, 2021 Natasha Matt, 2021

North Carolina General Assembly Youth Art Exhibition, June 2021-May 2022, State Legislative Building, Raleigh: November Woditschka, 2022

Eastern NC Scholastic Writing Awards Sasha An, 2021, Gold Key Alden Forkin, 2021, Honorable Mention Natasha Matt, 2021, Silver Key Natalie Presley, 2021, Gold Key Jagger Van Vliet, 2023, Honorable Mention

2019-2020

2019-2020

Excellence in Visual Art Award Lindsay West, 2020

Barbara Proctor Award Brooke Sanderford, 2020

Eastern NC Scholastic Art Awards Lindsay West, 2020, Silver Key Grace Haslam, 2020, Honorable Mention

High Tide Award Andrew Gramley, 2020 Joey McGarry, 2020

Head of School's Purchase Award Grace Haslam, 2020 Maeve Kelly, 2020

English Department Award Kiera Draffin, 2020 Casey Medlin, 2020

Save the Bees l Delilah Mills

65