High Tide 2022

HIGH TIDE

2022 | VOLUME V

CAPE FEAR ACADEMY’S LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE

LETTER FROM THE

EDITORS Dear Reader,

Welcome to Cape Fear Academy’s fifth edition of High Tide Literary and Arts Magazine.

At High Tide, we curate a collection of art and literature from grades 6 through 12. We aim to highlight students’ artistry and talents, giving each unique voice a chance to be heard.

This school year Cape Fear Academy found a new normal as we unmasked. Friends saw each others’ smiles for the first time in two years, and we were able to rejoin as a community. For many, the pandemic marked a boundary period, two years through which they changed and grew as people. A period of darkness, but also of new light. A time of transformation and growth. And from those two years, many found themselves. Many found new passions, or rekindled old ones. This new era that we are faced with is one of hope, creation, and beauty.

We at High Tide chose the theme “Identity” as representative of this year’s volume.

Throughout the issue we hope you find yourself reflected in the art and writings of those who gave even a small part of themselves to create something beautiful. The artists and writers behind these pieces contributed more than just their words and vision; they gave an intimate look into true expression.

Please enjoy this edition of High Tide. Allow yourself to find solace in these personal stories and intimate portraits. Allow yourself to sink into each word and brushstroke.

These pieces enbody countless voices, each with something new to say. Please listen to these voices. We hope you find yourself in that beautiful essence of creation.

Bella Santos, 2022 Jagger van Vliet, 2023

HIGH TIDE

LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE CAPE FEAR ACADEMY 2022 | VOLUME V

Cover: “All Eyes” l Aurelia Colvin ‘23

VISUAL ART

WRITING

3 Divide | Sydney Cortina

4 Where I’m From | Sophie Schroeder

4 Cutest Puppy | Sara Paige Harvey

5 Minnesota Interlude (Part 1) | Bella Santos

5 Alone | Dakota Snyder

6 Reflection | Emma Smith

5 Giraffe | Elliot Wells

8 Cages | Nash Riebe

7 Lost and Found | Aurelia Colvin

9 Driftwood | Porter O’Brien

8 Entropy | November Woditschka

10 Lune (Insanity in Three Acts) | Jagger van Vliet

9 Beach Views | Ryan Burton

13 Venu My Beloved | McLain Adams

11 Anonymous Hand | Charlee Vliet

14 should we call the painter? | Porter O’Brien

13 Perspective | Eve Berg

15 Old Soul | Makenzie Mills

14 Deceived | Scarlett Sweyer

16 Yelm: A Town of Not-So-Secret Secrets | Emma Smith

15 Super Kids | Colin Moore

17 Mox the Fox and His Missing Mittens | Cynthia Zou

16 Tunnel to Nowhere | Brady Edwards

18 Wallflower | Raney Webb

17 Sunset Fox | Cynthia Zou

19 Utterly Ever | Jagger van Vliet

18 For Your Clothes Here’s a Pretty Flower | Charlee Vliet

20 Balance | Claire Mearns

19 The Value of Dreams | Sophie Schroeder

22 I Believe in Buddy Holly | Bella Santos

21 On the Edge | Makenzie Mills

25 Willow | Katie Hayes O’Donovan

23 Security | Erin Fitzpatrick

26 Opacarophile | Makena Scanlon

24 The Silent River | Rylan Sibson

27 Sculpting the Box | Rilee Bahner

26 By the Sea | Stella Reid

28 Don’t Dismiss Me | Violet Nevin

27 Felicity | Jennifer Carrera

30 Sewn Shut | Claire Mearns

29 Shelley’s Heart | Arynn Baginski

32 A Consideration of Warborough | Jagger van Vliet

31 Depersonification | November Woditschka

34 The Imperfect | Madeline Cox

33 Fantasy Seascape | November Woditschka

35 Pearl | Taylor Sanderford

34 One Streetlight: A lesser known song by the Wallflowers | Anonymous 36 Hushed | Jennifer Carrera 35 Jade Owl | Alexandra Ord-Webb

38 My Not-So Trivial Pursuit | Betsy Porter

37 Contentment of Independence | Bella Erichsen

41 Inside the Mouth of a Killer | Katie Rudow

39 Plastic Saves | Dakota Snyder

43 Escaping Amarilla | Bella Santos

40 Bait | Cabe Lee

44 Colophon

42 Open Minded | Aurelia Colvin

45 Awards & Honors

44 High Tide | Jake Capps 45 Clementine Surprise | Sadie Campbell

“Divide” l Sydney Cortina ‘24 3

Where I’m From Sophie Schroeder ‘24

I am from packed snow from puddles and forgotten shoes I am from the stuffy air of the buses that hit every head-rattling curb I am from warm sodas on the hottest days when the radio played the same songs that always made my head hit the seat

I am from dark clouds From the ones that scared me, and the ones I chased with drenched clothes I am from remarks of my mother And the occurring inclusion of my sisters The extra pillows piled on my bed and the warmth of our overheated phones

I am from new houses, from new faces and new natures I am from cherry red, locker seven the arms that would extend to grab a wrist, and then the hair I am from nausea, black to beige car seats And the casino that smelled like cigarettes

I am from simple contact from company and strangers I am from the manners of others mirroring their demeanors I am from those times over and over

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“Cutest Puppy” l Sara Paige Harvey ‘24

Minnesota Interlude (Part 1) Bella Santos ‘22

The internet works fast but she works faster and before I had even stepped off my plane she had my number in her phone and before I had spent even one night in my new room she had invited me over, telling me that it was crucial I was socialized before my first day at public high school and before I could begin to tell her and her friends anything about me or my hometown, they had already taught me everything about their own and before I could get nervous about not being able to find my way around school the next day, they ripped my schedule out of my hands and started taunting me for each one of my classes (after all how could someone like history so much) and then the next morning after I met with my new counselor, I ditched my assigned tour guide and let her show me around the school instead, and her tour was awful and she never gave me a second to catch my breath or look at the numbers on the doors and I wasn’t really learning my way around at all but instead I was learning how to stay silent and how to let others walk over me because I didn’t have a place here and the only one anyone would give me was the spot stuck next to her and everyday we would go into the cafeteria line and I always brought a lunch from home but they said I couldn’t stand there unless I made a purchase and if I wasn’t standing there, I was standing somewhere else alone so every day I would buy a cup of froyo and just like her I would eat the whole thing and every night I would step on the scale watching the numbers fly and it was that moment I realized that maybe the weight of our bodies doesn’t include the weight of our souls because I knew mine was getting lighter but the numbers were saying different at an exponential rate and I was told that my response would be either fight or flight but before I could hit the ground running, I was drowning in what felt like quicksand because the internet works fast but she works faster.

“Alone” | Dakota Snyder ‘22; “Giraffe” | Elliot Wells ‘22

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5HÁHFWLRQ Emma Smith ‘26

When you look in the mirror, the surface is an undefined swirl of colors and textures Just a composition of shapes curated just for you Circles, triangles, rectangles The colors are vivid, each shade just a broad stroke of the artist’s brush Separately-- eyes; circle-- understanding— mouth; red-- it all But together what does it all really say…

What did the artist have in mind when they selected their individual pieces?

Did they lay their soul bare on the canvas?

Every face is made up of a multitude of feelings and experiences Weathered and worn from snowball fights, tears, laughs shared among friends Each edge and curve-- wrinkle or freckle-- tells a story the color of your cheeks, the triangle that makes up your nose Your soul is displayed bare on your face, each line there to be interpreted and taken in The visuals digested in our brains; critiqued and dissected to understand every person better When you look in the mirror there is no whole picture, just a bunch of small additions carefully chosen and puzzled together to tell the tale of you And if I look at just my eyes maybe I’ll see the whole story reflected back at me

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“Lost and Found” | Aurelia Colvin ‘23

7

Cages Nash Riebe ‘23

As It moves towards the cage labeled Hindsight, a pool of tears comes into view. Around the pool are several figures of varying sizes. The closer It gets, the blurrier their shapes become. Soon they are no longer figures but blurs.

of the cages, it found the Awareness of Death. This cage had nothing, which It was able to recognize for itself. Many viewers were not aware of the fact that the cage had nothing. With this information, It moved towards the end.

It approaches the cage labeled Greed. The cage has a magnetic nature, pulling It closer. The bars of the cage were so large, they distorted its contents to the viewer. It used close to all of Its strength to move in the opposite direction of Greed.

The second to last cage was labeled Self-Awareness. All It saw in the cage was itself. This confused It. It both loved and hated what it saw. It both scared It and enticed It. The contents of the cage, despite the fact that they were always themselves, were constantly changing in Its view.

Next was the cage labeled Religion. Its contents were so great, they caused It a great degree of skepticism. Inside were things both immensely horrible and immensely desirable. All the contents, however, left It both looking for something higher yet being frightened to find the very thing for which it searched.

The fourth cage It viewed was Forethought. Inside the cage was a path with infinite paths breaking off of each other. Were it not for the bars, It would’ve gone down any number of paths, some without hesitation, some with a great deal of anxiety. Eventually, the only path It chose was the one to the next cage.

As It approached what It perceived to be the end

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“Entropy” l November Woditschka ‘22

Perplexed, it stumbled to the last cage. The last and greatest cage didn’t have a title. In fact, inside of that cage was every other cage It had viewed.

At this point, It recognized there were others. It approached one of the others, wondering what It saw. Its answers were totally different from what It had seen. Where It had viewed Greed, the other one had seen a cage labeled Intellect. In Forethought’s place stood compromise. This interaction startled It, but also let It take solace in the fact that what it saw was uniquely different from what any other might see. Looking back on the infinite collection of cages, many of which It had viewed, many which It hadn’t, many that others had viewed, many that others hadn’t, It moved out and into humanity.

Driftwood Porter O’Brien ‘25

There’s no way to reverse time.

I’m sure I’d do it if I could.

I know I shouldn’t but I would.

You’re done with me, I misunderstood.

So you pushed me, into the sea.

But then you’d help me, and pull me ashore.

I wish you’d set me free, but you’d continue evermore.

Except once, you set me aflame.

Sparked a fire to driftwood.

“Beach Views” l Ryan Burton ‘25

9

/XQH ,QVDQLW\ LQ $FWV Jagger van Vliet ‘23

I I’ve begun taking cold showers in the morning.

something of a slump; to use sporting vernacular. I had struggled before, but nothing to this severity. I could

They have become integral to my efforts of not losing my

not think. I could not function. My mind had become

mind.

ultimately preoccupied with anything that wasn’t my They are just jarring enough to shake one

work. A sound, a noise, a blinking light. I was sidetracked

from a stupor. Just frigid enough to wash away the

at every turn, such that by the time my deadline had

melancholy mediocrity that so consumes my days. Icy

rolled around, I was able to produce only a meager page

and unforgiving is the water that cleanses my captive

or two of loosely conjoined, utterly open ended thoughts.

body. Such unforgiving is therapeutic in a way. It breathes

Subsequently, I signed on to the resort. An

life into that which has been sucked from my being. If I

advertisement had wound its way to my mail, and by

had known captivity to be so incorrigibly dreadful, I may

some bizarre act of spontaneity, I decided to attend. The

have thought twice before volunteering myself.

resort was a place for creatives. People like me. People

For I have put myself here willingly, or rather, I

who had become lost in their own sort of “slump.” It was

put myself here on the pretence of will. My willingness

a place free of distractions. Just a room, some food, a

has, to say the very least, dwindled. In fact, at this

bed, and whatever materials one needed to create. One

particular point, I believe there is nothing I would like

can imagine the optimism I initially expressed at such a

more than to leave this wretched place. All willingness I

perfectly timed coincidence.

may have possessed those weeks ago, has since left me. It

My optimism has dwindled dreadfully in more

appears captivity does not suit me, as I thought it might.

present days. The room I had found quaint before, now

Upon my perusal of the brochures, I had thought this

pains me to observe. The bed I had found modestly

resort to be the perfect place for me. Somewhere I could

comfortable, now too lumpy. There is only one window,

really get my head on straight. Nothing to do but work,

and it hangs above my reach, casting perpendicular

and think. That was all I really needed. Though perhaps

shadows down the furthermost wall. I can just see the

in all actuality, a degree of context is required, before I

moon on some nights.

lament the intricacies of my prison.

I am a writer. A journalist. I work, or perhaps “worked” at a mildly popular magazine. Nothing too

II They gave me a desk too. A typewriter. A pencil.

flashy. Not a big name or anything. I was far from

A notebook. All has since been cast about this damned

critically acclaimed. Far from some Pultizer-winning

room. The notebook lies in shreds now, tattered amongst

novelist. Yet my work was my work, and I did it well.

the splintered corpses of several pencils. I have not

Or perhaps more accurately, my presence was essential

brought myself to destroy the typewriter yet. After all,

to the magazine. My columns; a must have. I did not so

how else would I write if some stroke of genius should hit

much despise being needed, more to the point, I despised

me. Though if it hasn’t yet, I doubt it ever will.

the pressure of consistency. Deadlines riddled my mind

The food is the same each day. I read something in the

each waking day, and the more I came to be aware of

brochure about repetition of the mundane being good

these deadlines the more I faltered in my performance.

for one’s creative output. I have found that to be complete

The harder it was to come up with a witty line, or clever

nonsense. Oatmeal, and toast each and every morning

anecdote.

does nothing to satisfy whatever creativity I may have

I first signed onto the resort after falling into 10

suppressed. Neither does a sandwich every noontime,

and (if you’ll believe it) vegetable soup dinners at night.

a perch at the edge of my bedframe I can just catch a

None of this seems to bring out any more creativity in

glinting shimmer from the window. A pale ghostly face

me. If anything, my loathing for this place increases at

hiding in the darkened clouds. She smiles at me. Leers

each mealtime, which in turn depreciates the quality

more like. She taunts me. She tells me that I should be

of my work. Tonight my vegetable soup was bland, and

working. That I should be doing something more. I cry

quite tepid. I should like to have a glass of wine when I

out to her, that this place is insidious. I appeal to her

get out of this place.

that I should so like to be working, but that this place

Sleep seems the only time that I manage to truly

is simply not conducive to creativity. She laughs. That

escape the horrid space. Waking days, spent lounging in

glinting white moon cackles wickedly at me. She is free.

a prison cell no larger than a broom closet, tends to grow

Horribly and disgustingly free. She could do as she likes,

quite monotonous. So, in compensation, my dreams are

and yet she chooses to gawk at the captive animal that is

quite vivid. Insatiably tangible are they, such that I find

me. If only I had something to show for this pitiful per-

myself often disappointed when I wake to the damn

formance. If only I could shake a fistful of pages at her,

room.

to show her that I was worthwhile. It appears my weight I’ve created quite the mess for myself. I don’t re-

upon the bed frame was too much. It has given out

call how long ago it was, just that the room sits in a state

beneath me. Presently, the moon smirks, as I am thrown

of perpetual chaos now. Leaflets of notebook paper lie as

supine upon this room’s sordid floor. Presently, I watch

a carpet. Bits of stuffing from this miserable mattress dust

a trickle of blood leak past my ear. It sparkles a bit. The

the ground as snow, and to top it all off, there are molded

moon shines in that darkly sickening stuff.

bits of bread from sandwiches, uneaten, that fleck the

If anyone has gotten anything out of this, I

ground. I don’t suppose I know why the bread is here.

should so like to meet them. Perhaps we might get a

Possibly, I long for some starved rat to come about, and

drink, and it could pester them with each urking thought

curiously observe the leftover food. I would so like to see

that so plagues me as I sit here each day. Perhaps they

a rat.

would be an artist, who found beauty in this solace, and I wonder if anyone has actually gotten any good

from this place. I seem to be losing my mind.

The moon looks terribly beautiful tonight. From

turned it into a miraculous gallery of artwork. I would ask them, did they not grow bored? I would implore them to see how tortuous this time is. I would ask them, “Anonymous Hand” l Charlee Vliet ‘24

11

did they not think often of leaving? Did time itself not

There’s more blood on the floor. The moon. She

slow, and light and day not merge? I would ask them, in

is playing tricks. She is trying to outdo me. She won’t fool

all genuine honesty, was it all worth it? Was this horrible

me of course. I’ve got my poem now. I’ve got something

place truly worth it?

to show her. Something to shut her up. Even still… I do

That moonlit blood has dried now. It is actually

wonder where that blood came from.

quite a lot. How much did I lose that night?

Damn! I believe the typewriter is broken. Upon

They should never have given me bedsheets.

Those morons at the resort really messed up this time.

tasting the oatmeal this morning I found myself in a rage

I can string them up you see. I can tie them in strands.

I could not truly control. Presently, as I am more con-

I can form a rope to free myself from this space. I can

scious I have found my typewriter irreversibly dented.

climb to my perch, and escape. It is all too easy.

There are shards about the room, I presume from whence

The moon, she pleads with me not to. She cries

the oatmeal was contained. Though there is no oatmeal

out, as I teeter on my post. That rope leads to freedom,

to be found. I suppose before rage, comes hunger.

I tell her. Those bedsheets, those last torn things in my room, lead to a better place. Any place that is not here.

III

I will escape, I inform her. She seems panicked. I assure

Sleep provides no solace.

her that this is ultimately for the better. Does she not

If any man or woman produced anything from

want me to be free?

their time here, I should like to see it! I demand to see

Aha!

it! Am I not deserving of a little morale boost? If anyone

A traterious thing she is. A traitorous fool. She

should have anything to show from this place let them

never wanted me to leave. She only wanted to watch her

free me from this torment! In actuality, I believe no one

little zoo animal waste away in his cage. Well, I have seen

has done anything. I believe no one benefits from this

through this lie. I have seen through this treacherous

place. The resort’s guests are not guests at all. Permanent

moon. I will escape now, if only to spite her. I will be free

residents more like! Ah ha! I have cracked the deplor-

from this hell, if only to laugh at her from outside.

able code that holds this establishment up. I alone have

Goodbye I call to her. Goodbye! Take this poem for I

figured out the one truth. This is all a scheme. A terrible

have no need for it anymore! I am free. I cast that tattered

scheme to keep me… us captive.

poem to the moon, and leap towards freedom. In one

The moon tries speaking to me sometimes. I

glorious swoop, I am overcome with giddy euphoria.

think she must feel guilty. Not only does blood stain

With the willowy tiredness. With a fearful consciousness.

the floor of my room. It stains her conscience too. She

There are no words that make up my poem. That purely

whispers how weary she is. How tired she is of all this

white page, shines in the moonlight, as I fall. Yet, I am

fighting. I won’t let her have satisfaction. Not while I am

still free. I cannot be touched by this light anymore. I am

still trapped here. If I should be trapped by the walls of

free.

this gastly room, then so too should the beauteous moon be trapped in her guilt.

I wrote a poem today. So possibly, I could say

I am free of this cage that so ensnares me.

Free of the thoughts that so oppress me.

that this was all for something. I wrote a poem, and it is

Free of the walls that so constrain me.

all I have to show. I don’t recall where I found the ink,

I am sinking.

nor paper, as most everything in my room is now torn to shreds. Nevertheless I wrote a poem. A single glorious piece of work. A holy thing that is my savior, in this pit of unconsolable despair.

12

Upwards.

Venu My Beloved McLain Adams ‘22

He entails skittering, staticy percussion, tender falsetto refrains, and atmospheric synthesizer loops.

Venu’s subdued and confident melodic core that the wind weaves in and out of brings stress and hope in and out of contact with a strong, lovely ocean at his center.

“Perspective” l Eve Berg ‘22

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´VKRXOG ZH FDOO WKH SDLQWHU"µ Porter O’Brien ‘25

a room of childish disarray, of clashing colors and patterns memorized blankly. the walls purposely littered with my creativityfads, passion, all lost and unmotivated to design new. the promise of command strips trialed in the process of discovery. a new mania aesthetic tears down the layers of me: one creation comes down carrying drywall, leaving a hole mirroring my body. i try to plaster over it and silence my longing, but never completing my task leaves the wall stained white. dust occasionally falls as vows flutter between my teeth. an absence of the correct paint shade leaves behind the smears of putty, leaving my oath to contrast emotions, and a permanent remnant of past mistakes. past relationships. occasionally passing by aged originality in the attic of my mind. my lack of caution i’m reminded of dailyby the one i stare at in the mirror and the almost-covered hole in the wall behind me.

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“Deceived” l Scarlett Sweyer ‘26

Old Soul Makenzie Mills ‘22

I am far too young to feel so old. It seems as though I have completely come of age within the short span of seventeen years. The dissatisfaction I possess with this number is that I frankly do not feel it. I am intrigued by the deficiency of internal youthfulness I embody. I am often jealous of the immaturity my peers flaunt because of their unburdened spirits. I consider myself an old soul. Although it may not be plastered upon several medians of my formal identification, I feel that I contain knowledge beyond my blunt numerical existence. This immense struggle tends to impede my ability to connect with others my age. Because of my rather sophisticated conscience, I set high expectations for others that may result in my disappointment. Aside from this hindrance, I am forever appreciative of the relentless emotional stability I developed by experiencing such independence. I find it difficult to accept this distinctive identity, as I ironically listen to yet another effortless musical demonstration of the 20th century whilst assembling this piece. I accept my abnormally exceptional outlook on life through passions that encapsulate my emotional complexity and mature spirit. I have learned to cherish my qualities that feature my empathetic and seasoned soul; therefore my true age differs from what is explicitly printed on a certificate. Feeling so old never seemed so endearing.

“Super Kids” l Colin Moore ‘22

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Excerpt from

Yelm: A Town of Not-So-Secret Secrets Emma Smith ‘26

The word ‘Yelm’ means “heat waves from the sun”. This meaning was derived from the traditional Coast Salish word ‘Chelm’. This prairie of Washington State was originally occupied entirely by the Nisqually Tribe because the area had many flat, green spaces, which were utilized as horse pastures, and for the Nisqually River itself, which was often utilized for both religious practice, and as a way of reaching other Washington tribal communities. It was around the mid-1800s that it was happened upon by James Longmire. He explored the Mount Rainier area and built a wagon road and a guiding station to what would later be the national park, because of this Yelm came to be known as the “Gateway to Mt. Rainier”. Yelm’s tagline eventually morphed into the line “Pride of the Prairie” after modern roads made access to Mt. Rainier more efficient and Yelm was no longer a required part of the journey.

As of 2021, the Yelm population reached about 9.5k in the city limits. The tight-knit community of Yelmites prides itself on the fact that everyone knows everyone. The town consists mainly of locally-owned businesses, but over the years many franchises (over 6 fast food corporations, both Walmart and Safeway, and other businesses) have begun to more heavily commercialize the area.

A long road practically divides the center of town from beginning to end, if you follow this outside the town for a couple minutes you will have reached what is now the Nisqually Indian Tribe Reservation. The reservation is a modern and well-maintained area, where casinos, a jail, gas station, school, suburban neighborhoods, and stores (all tribal run) thrive.

These communities (the reservation and the main town of Yelm) work together relatively harmoniously, but it hadn’t always been like that. One of Yelm’s more recent controversial memorials was in the form of a native themed park and splash pad, which still sits beside the 18 16

“Tunnel To Nowhere ” l Brady Edwards ‘28

Yelm community center at Yelm City Park (yes, a splash pad) and if this doesn’t seem wildly insensitive enough, the design was complete with a wannabe totem pole consisting of a spread eagle at the top and a playground designed in commemoration of log structures with forest elements. Thus began the crack in the foundation of the communities’ alliance. In support of its own local government, businesses on the Reservation usually have marked spots at front entrances, which are designated for the chief and other important members, which (as you can probably guess) had sparked controversy over the years by non-tribal members, who regarded it as ‘unfair special treatment’. This furthered the rift between communities even more. But in more recent years, in an effort to involve Yelm citizens with Res. Citizens, the tribe holds an annual kayaking event on the Nisqually river. This event, coined ‘Kayak Nisqually’, commemorates Native traditions and has begun to bring everyone together in a more respectful way.

Mox the Fox and His Missing Mittens Cynthia Zou ‘27

In the coldest of Winters and darkest of days stood a small, little fox, A fox named Mox. This small, little fox as small as baby kittens, Stood out in the cold searching for his mittens.

He dug through the thick snow crying, He didn’t notice an older couple spying.

The old lady quickly took him inside, The old man asked him his reasons for crying and he replied, “I lost my mittens, now what will I do!”

The old woman spoke up, “I can help you, dear. Don’t look so blue.”

So the old woman took out a fuzzy ball of yarn and a pair of needles.

Soon after a few tweedles, The old woman held before Mox a copy of what yearned so much.

Mox held out his paws for a touch.

In the old woman’s hands were a pair of red mittens, The end of each one was tied with a tiny, little ribbon.

Mox asked, “How can I repay you for such kindness?”

The kind couple pointed to his heart and said, “Just share to the world your heart’s brightness.”

Many years later, another stormy night passed by, Around the corner hopped a baby bird who couldn’t fly.

A fox came up to the baby bird and took her into his home, A humble pile of sticks shaped as a dome.

The fox seated her down on his sofa and entered one of his two kitchens, He came back with a warm pair of tiny mittens.

When the little bird asked for the name of the fox, The fox smiled a kind smile and told her that his name was Mox.

“Sunset Fox” l Cynthia Zou ‘27

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:DOOÁRZHU Raney Webb ‘22

As the days get longer, the nights get colder, and the last star cannot keep the sky afloat, look onward.

Those dormant dreams and buried possibilities are clawing for a way out.

We are not the ground on which others tread, but the food on which worms feed.

We cast a net, catching nothing but silence.

Our thoughts go unnoticed; drowned out by the howling wind.

It grows harder, the clouds seem to let more rain come pelting down and yet, hope persists.

We are constantly pulled and pushed every which way, yet we allow hope to be a stem, an anchor which keeps our feet planted even when storms attempt to uproot us.

If one never calls out, they may never receive an answer.

If we live in fear of the unknown, we will never know what could be.

Take that step.

Find your voice.

Write your own verse, for life is too short to remain silent.

20 18

“For Your Clothes Here’s a Pretty Flower” l Charlee Vliet ‘24

Utterly Ever Jagger van Vliet ‘23

So said the pearl to the ember How can I be of your stardust If I am so burdened by this illustrious glimmer And by your fiery stone How can I breathe of that same air If my sunlight reflects such glamour?

And the pearl did weep for the ashes For they could never be so permanent And yet how envious was that pearl For she was burdened by rebirth Forever and consistently washed By those waves of new life That might never grace the ember Who breathed free air of no place And no time.

“The Value of Dreams” l Sophie Schroeder ‘24

19 21

Balance Claire Mearns ‘26

Every reaction must have an opposite reaction. balance to life. death. rebellion. loss.

20

Love is light. brick wall in the south. around at 100 beats per minute.

Loss is painted as a dark night.

Loss is a monster hiding in your closet late at nightwaiting for the perfect moment to come and grab you suddenly. bawling your eyes out until there is just the coldness of the tile.

What if it wasn’t?

What if loss was a good thing?

What if moving on from grieving is a good thing?

Grief is a pinky promise touch.

Everyone breathing their last breath always says “Remember me happy” and “You’ll be ok”.

do they?

How can you believe something that is so undeniably untrue?

How come grief leaves us with uncertainties, when death is the most certain thing ever?

“On the Edge” l Makenzie Mills ‘22

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I Believe in Buddy Holly Bella Santos ‘22

As a child, my interests constantly changed, and with them the role models who they were inspired by. In kindergarten, I memorized hundreds of facts about Helen Keller, and naturally, I became obsessed with learning American Sign Language. In second grade, I met a children’s author at the dollar store down the street from my house, and before you knew it I was spending all of my free time writing.

In elementary school, I loved to dance, and the more hours I spent at my ballet studio, the more I became obsessed with Evelyn CisnerosLegate, the first Hispanic ballerina in the U.S. I’ve known many idols in my lifetime, and I’ve allowed each of them to inspire me in different ways. I’ve bought outfits to look like Cinderella, raided my parent’s closet so I could dress up like my mother, and I’ve learned every lyric written

by Taylor Swift. But of all of my revered icons whether animated, real, or written by Carolyn Keene, the one I have stayed most true to over the years, is Buddy Holly.

When I was seven years old, I lacked any sort of taste in music. For some reason, I tended to blame this aspect of myself on my parents, for they had no unifying favorite genre to pass onto me. My mother, born and raised in Nebraska, listened to nothing other than country. My father, an immigrant who didn’t learn English until he was a teenager, filled our home with sounds of Latin Pop and exasperatingly long Mariachi remixes. I know it’s natural for people to harbor their own music tastes regardless of DNA, but I always hoped I would find someone in my family whose’ interests resonated with my own.

It was my Tia Tricia who first introduced me to Buddy Holly’s music, giving me a sort of shared individualism, allowing me to feel unique but also heard. I clearly remember the first time I ever heard him. I was sitting in the passenger seat of my Tia’s car (blatantly 24 22

against my parent’s wishes) when she turned on Buddy Holly Radio, and “Everyday” blasted through the speakers. Within that moment I was immediately captivated. My brow furrowed and my face scrunched up with concentration as I absorbed each note and lyric. As a little girl with a naturally pessimistic attitude, his music brought a glimpse of optimism into my life. In just the two minutes and nine seconds that “Everyday” played in the car, Buddy Holly taught me that every day we’re all a step closer to love. In just two minutes and nine seconds, he had given me something to live for.

When I got home that night I swarmed the internet with different Google searches. I watched every black and white video of Buddy Holly and The Crickets performing live, read every article, and listened to every album.

At one point I looked up “Bo Diddley” in my family’s office dictionary trying to better understand one of Holly’s song titles, yet the dictionary brought up fruitless results. Where I innocently thought Bo Diddley was a legitimate word it was the name of a person; obviously, I still had much to learn about American 50s Rock personas. At seven years of age, I was a Buddy Holly aficionado. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude knowing I came across Holly so early on. While other kids my age may only be fortunate enough to stumble across his music as adults, I had the rest of my lifetime to devote to it.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I discovered an online image of an old newspaper article, the headline reading: “The Day The Music Died.” A young Buddy Holly’s picture was plastered across the cover, the image fading and his smile unsuspecting. Skimming the text, I realized this article was written to report the tragic plane crash and deaths of 3 of America’s most famous musicians. On February 3rd, 1959, Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, and Buddy

Holly were all killed in Clear Lake, Iowa. Holly was only 22 years old. At the time of his death, Buddy Holly may have been tragically young, but at the time of my discovery, I was younger.

For the first time in my life, I was confronted with mortality and I was extremely ill-prepared, to say the least.

In the beginning, I was especially distraught.

I felt like I had lost one of my closest friends. It suddenly made sense to me why Buddy Holly hadn’t released new music in over fifty years, it hurt knowing he would have written more songs given the chance. Gradually, I progressed through the five stages of grief. I listened to “American Pie” by Don Mclean, reveling in the idea that Holly’s life was so celebrated. I learned about his “widowed bride” and how she started “The Buddy Holly Educational Foundation” in his honor. After weeks of passing through denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, I finally landed on acceptance. I had come to terms with Holly’s loss as well as my own, and I began to focus instead on the remarkable impact he had on me.

How was it possible that someone born almost seven decades before me, who died so young could have influenced me so much? I don’t think Buddy Holly ever wrote his music intending for it to reach a seven-year-old girl simply trying to navigate 2011, but it did.

Holly’s lasting influence has never ceased to amaze me. One 22-year-old man with a lost future brought me the best music I had ever heard. He brought me my first experience with grief. He brought me the song I still hope to one day play at my wedding. Different people are constantly weaving in and out of our lives, yet we’re only lucky enough for a special few to break their way through the fabric and stay with us forever. At seventeen years old I still shuffle Buddy Holly radio every time I sit down to do my homework. Just last Christmas, my best friend got me the soundtrack to Holly’s biographical film on vinyl.

“Everyday” coming on the radio while I was driving with my Tia has always struck me as

one of my most fortunate coincidences. It was a coincidence that after possibly years of not having listened to him, she felt the urge to play his music. It was a coincidence that I happened to sit in her passenger seat, the one spot where I could see the display screen, ensuring that Buddy Holly’s name would be permanently engraved in my mind. It’s possible that all of our actions are being seen as “fortunate coincidences” in someone else’s life. I often indulge in the idea that decades down the road, some little girl I’ve never met will be influenced by my life’s greatest decisions.

Just a few months ago I read the quote, “Be strong, you never know who you are inspiring” and it immediately reminded me of my connection to Holly. You never know how someone else is looking at you, or possibly even looking up to you. If Buddy Holly hadn’t decided to pursue a career in music, I might not be half the person that I am today. If Evelyn Cisneros-Legate hadn’t fulfilled her goals of becoming a professional ballet dancer, I may never have achieved my dream of being cast as Snow in “The Nutcracker”. Role models can be found anywhere. Icons don’t have to be legends.

I believe in being strong for others; I believe that we all have the potential to inspire.

“Security” l Erin Fitzpatrick ‘22

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“The Silent River” | Rylan Sibson ‘28

Willow

Katie Hayes O’Donovan ‘26

A curious young girl is perched in the swaying branches of a lethargic willow Her grandmother’s tales of princesses and knights in shining armor play in her head A branch sticking from the mighty truck of the tree could be a step or a hand hold or a fairy princess wand She climbs hand over hand to the crest of the great tree The wind whips the willow’s branches, urging the girl to fall, yet she prevails, white knuckles against the brown, peeling bark Swirling breezes blow against her rosy cheeks and lackadaisical bees buzz around her head in search of pollen Her mother calls her in for lunch Scraped knees descend from the soaring tree top with no thought to if the feet below them will catch her She grows up beneath the vast shade of the old tree Years of puppet shows, make believe, and dance routines are set on the willow’s shady stage One day, the girl leaves the tree and doesn’t come back, the breezes still blow and the bees still buzz but never again is a protruding branch more than wood After a dull car ride, the girl returns to her childhood home The greetings have ceased, the only sound is the creaking back door opening into the fresh air The tree, the tree that saw her childhood come and go, was gone All that remained was a stump and a pile of muddied leaves The sticks that had been jungle gyms and swords and horses now lay on the ground snapped and mangled The tree that had held her what felt a hundred feet from the ground now brings her to her knees Drawing her to the ground she trod as a child like water to her roots

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Opacarophile Makena Scanlon ‘23

As I sit on the coarse, damp sand with the cool breeze and crisp air, this is the only time I can just be.

It is something I have watched a number of times in 17 years, but each time, it has the same effect.

A short escape I long for from the thoughts that consume my head I sit and watch the blue sky turn to colors of orange and pink as the sun falls back into the earth.

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“By the Sea” l Stella Reid ‘27

Sculpting the Box Rilee Bahner ‘22

A small box was made for me, one upon millions Squeezing into it seemed … Impossible But what am I if I don’t fit in?

Nothing.

I am worthless.

I feel the putty surrounding my hands as I sculpt myself to be acceptable.

But I am not meant to squeeze; I am not meant to fit in

“Felicity” l Jennifer Carrera ‘23

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Don’t Dismiss Me

Violet Nevin ‘27

I still remember that day.

Impossible to forget.

I just wanted to forget.

But the memories just don’t disappear.

If that were true, I’d forget everything I’d ever known and start all over again. That’d be easier.

But again I say, that’s not the case.

He in himself was dark, a shapeless entity pulled from the pits of a dungeon. I couldn’t see his face, all he did was keep his hood up. His hands were that of leather, not skin. Sometimes, when I’m all alone, I could still smell his rich, expensive cologne. His voice sounded like a snake’s hiss, and I was in too much pure fear to comprehend the words that tumbled from his lips in a waterfall. You might ask, who is he? Well, my dearest comrade, I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t want to know. I still don’t.

I was small then. I’m small now. I’ll never not be small. I’m going to stay twenty-three forever.

And ever. And ever.

He made sure of that.

I was a doll made of porcelain that sickly, sticky night. People advised me against living all alone, but what could I do? I had no money to support someone else. I had no major degree. I’d been excommunicated from my parents’ home long ago. Who wants a failure for a child?

He came like a thief in the night, snatching my arm and dragging me, flailing. My mind was befuddled by his excellent scent and the rum and coke I’d had an hour before. I couldn’t even stand straight.

The cool, sharp shock was too much for me. I fell to the ground, shivering, as the dark mass pooled around me. Stained my shirt and soaked into the earth. My blood would run deep in the soil of some backyard apartment. Like the veins of mother earth herself, reclaiming me. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.

Well, that’s occasionally what happens when you’re murdered.

He lifted my lifeless body like a rag, tossed me in his shoulder bag, and I was engulfed by what seemed to be endless darkness.

As each breath came slower and slower, and my heartbeat receded to a dull ache in my neck, my fingers closed around the fabric of my ruined clothes. My mouth parted, I shivered once more, and finally closed my eyes.

But that wasn’t enough for him.

The ride was bumpy until finally, I fell with a thump into another pot of upturned earth. Like a seed to a monstrous plant. Like a warning. Like a grave.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t beat my fists like a toddler and yell for forgiveness to God. There was nothing I could do but lay and listen as the dirt cascaded over me. Over and over again.

For hours.

Then, finally, he left. I could hear his footsteps retreat in a slow, confident, way.

My limbs were twigs held together by vines. My lungs were filled with mildew and moss. I was abandoned to rot in the cold soil of my childhood home. Alone. Dead. Gone.

So I wonder, you reader, how are you reading this? I died fifteen years ago.

I guess you just…don’t dismiss me.

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“Shelley’s Heart” l Arynn Baginski ‘22

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Sewn Shut Claire Mearns ‘26

She began with a bang She cried when arriving into this dreadful world of ours Fighting, kicking, screaming, crying.

And yet, she is silent in all opinions Her intricate intensity- deemed useless She is silenced.

She is told that “You’re just a child, you don’t get it” In our dreams And nightmaresShe is silenced.

In her imagination- her personal escape hatchshut down We might’ve started with a bang, but our noises, Noises of triumph, of happinessLaughing at a funny joke, a good grade on a test, any form of joy Silenced.

It’s as though, those noises of triumph, are not triumphant whatsoever.

Her dreams, nightmares, fantasiesshattered And she needs to shut up What about me?

It’s the circle of life She will do this to our children, and their children, and so forth She will silence them, just as she was silenced.

Children are not allowedprohibitedTo have fantasies, dreams, opinions, or even, imaginations.

Silenced by force, not by choice Her lips sewn so tight they feel as though they are going to 30

burst She is silenced. brutal and perplexing.

But, it’s her world.

And she can Prove that she is not “just a little girl” Prove that she does get it She will not back down until she is respected.

Silence in itself is confusing It comes and goes But always stays with us An uncomfortable silence and being silenced And we still keep it with us Always And f o r e v e r

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A Consideration of Warborough Jagger van Vliet ‘23

Tangled in a maze of quaint abodes, verdant parkways, and aged faces, I have found there to be a distinct beauty in Warborough.

The town lies, like all quiet towns in England, in a small subsection of countryside. A tucked away pocket, that, despite interacting with its various neighbors, likes very much to keep to itself. There is notably a cornershop, and church near the main road, though rarely are the good locals of Warborough spotted anywhere near such urbanite destinations. No, most of the town’s citizens, as far as I have found, reside most comfortably in, or about, the town’s center.

Not so symmetrical in shape, nor truly noble in constitution is this center. More of a measly oblong patch of grass and shaded tree.

Such imperfect conditions provide a wonderful area to write, or peoplewatch.

Across from the center lies the town’s pub. A simply marvelous staple of English culture. To an American, I have found it looks ever the picture of an Anglo-Saxon alehouse. A picturesque little place, with wonderful cooks and waitstaff. On any day in particular, one might find a host of regulars posted up at dutiful positions about the place. At the front of the building some chose the canopy provided by numerous colored umbrellas. Though inside, one could find those escaping the heat of summer in the bowels of the aged tavern. And still, at the back of the pub, (an area foreigners chose to frequent most

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often) it was not unsurprising to find a gaggle of townspeople congregating in a book club or tea party.

Without becoming too terribly redundant it must be stated how tirelessly quaint the whole town was. The people, the buildings, even the children. Perhaps I had not given thought to the notion that the children of the English aisle have that accent, but upon hearing a small child speak in that manner I was beset by deeply fanciful happiness. Everything seemed right and routine in Warborough. Despite its lopsided town center, and it’s rarely occupied corner shop. The place felt right. Perfect goes too far, and would inevitably be an insult to describe such a place. It was not perfect, it was simply, good, and proper.

I had but only one day before setting off from the lovely place when I found what I have deemed to be Warborough’s greatest treasure. It must be understood that whenever the English countryside was settled, it’s architects were most likely taken aback by the sheer expansiveness of the fields and meadows. Surely one would not like to live in such an open and sprawling scape. And thus, perfect verdant facades cropped up. Thin green lines comprised of only two or three trees in depth, that gave the quite accurate illusion that one was in a much smaller, less immense space. I had not known this key detail to England’s floral architecture, and as such found myself quite at awe having escaped it. After dinner, I had gone

on a prolonged stroll about town. Call it one last look around, before I departed. However, feeling myself inclined by no true reasoning at all, I continued down a nearby lane. Possibly it was that the houses looked so lovely, or the lane so charming, but nevertheless I followed this lane through the thin expanse of forest that contained Warborough.

It did not truly dawn on me how large of a place I was residing in until I at last escaped this faux-forest. Now strolling, not on a country lane, but an acutely dusty farming trail, I came to understand my favorite part of the country. The fields.

The great fields of grain and wheat. Such massive swaths of yellow and brown, fit only for a painter who might convey this image better than

I. The sky seemed somehow clearer here, the air somehow more aromatic. My footsteps served as the only sound for miles. I could see a distant roadway, and yet somehow after traveling over field after field of beauty, even that far off noise seemed to rest in the outskirts of Warborough.

Though I made a note to lament the fact that I had not found this place sooner, it seemed even regret was nullified by the great fields and greater sky.

Though Warborough township still occupies a piece of my heart, it is that field, and that dusty road that remain affixed to me permanently. Those first breaths taken after one realizes how free they have become. How good and proper. How quaint and simple. Yet how graciously and utterly perfect.

“Fantasy Seascape” l November Woditschka ‘22

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The Imperfect Madeline Cox ‘26

Long wooden neck, dusty wired strings, metal frets weathered by generations, a curvy with body sides dark and thick “pick me up” “play a chord,” it calls.

My grandmother’s and now mine-the sight fills my heart with joy and the melodic chords bless my ears.

I feel a strong urge to play again and leave this reality for a second.

The song transports me to a world with sticky swirled lollipops in the itty bitty hands of elated fairies who glissade through fields of roses with no worries the music carries me to a place where everything seems perfect... but nowhere is perfect.

Flaws are curated by the twang of an E minor.

Rainbows shadow into dark clouds.

The fairies bend and twist into contorted green witches and the lollipops transform into brooms.

The trees whirl blank and the once-thriving field is barren as perfection is deafened with one slang stroke. ´2QH 6WUHHWOLJKW $ OHVVHU NQRZQ VRQJ E\ WKH :DOOÁRZHUVµ O $QRQ\PRXV 34

Pearl

Taylor Sanderford ‘25

Gimmy I may not share your name, and yet we share a sense of humor, kindness, and Christianity Your smile is like a comedian, lighting up a quiet room, and a warm hug welcomes me each time you visit.

Your name, Pearl, means a person of great rarity and a hard, lustrous spherical mass formed within the shell of a pearl oyster, highly prized as a gem.

In 1942, when you were born in a family of six, Resembles the time I was born into a a family of three, Big, yet small That first moment when you learned how to make a fire, first feeling gratification from your father, parallels the time I learned how to ride a bike, making my dad so happy for me At Christmas time, your butter rum wine cake is my Favorite taste like freshly made boba, the softness of the warm bread resembles the gentle taste of the tapioca pearls When you both arrive, I know that our home will be filled with your gracious personality of hope and forgiveness I wondered about the lessons your parents taught you, to never give up, the moments when you teach me how to bake, your piano class, Mrs. William, and how you hung out in the graveyard outside of school You never had a curfew because you ran the road and just did you My favorite story, the one in which you walked to school with Peter and told jokes while picking plums from your neighbor’s streets makes me think about how much our family values a day-to-day--laughter, kindness, and gratitude, that I’m lucky to share with you.

To sit at the dinner table with you both means to share love and kindness.

And for that, I am grateful.

37 “Jade Owl” l Alexandra Ord-Webb ‘27

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Hushed Jennifer Carrera ‘23

I can’t speak.

I can’t form the words I hear in my brain.

I need a script.

Without one, things get jumbled Every morning I wake up and write the script for the day, when I don’t have time between brushing my teeth and packing lunch I stop.

My words stay wrapped in my brain.

Even when I want to speak, my lips don’t form the words, my vocal cords don’t hum, and I’m stuck with my mouth open, trying my hardest.

As a result, my voice doesn’t work.

I’ve never been good at Improv.

I can’t have hard conversations without a clear plan and a week of practice.

I practice my words for each day, When I cook, and just before I go to bed, When I drive to school and go on runs; Because practice makes perfect, right?

If I just practice enough, I’ll be perfect.

But I can’t practice if I have no one to talk to, Or if my legs won’t carry me to the places where I can talk.

I practice a different speech.

One that I can edit and revise.

A kind of speech that forces a script when read aloud because that is its identity.

Talking where every word and intention and tone comes out perfectly.

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My room is filled with loose papers.

Papers filled with the words that lost their way on the journey from my brain to the air.

Papers that contain the condolences I wish I could give, the ideas I wish I could tell, the confrontations I need to have.

The things I wish I could force out, make myself say, the barrier I want to just tear down.

I can’t speak.

I try, sometimes I fail, sometimes I succeed, but I need the practice and the script and that’s okay.

Because the speaking I practice is the kind that lasts forever.

It’s what becomes the classics on your bookshelf, the conversation piece to accompany a minimalist drawing on your wall.

My speaking might miss a comma, but a comma doesn’t hurt someone.

Unlike the wrong inflection on a word in a sentence, Unlike the tone you use.

And so I can’t speak as eloquently as Nobel prize winners, but I can write well enough to construct worlds and kingdoms without even describing them.

And thus, I Can speak

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“Contentment of Independence” | Bella Erichsen ‘23

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My Not-So Trivial Pursuit Betsy Porter ‘22

triv·i·a noun details, considerations, or pieces of information of little importance or value.

One of the most underrated feelings, in my opinion, is answering a random trivia question correctly based on a tiny sliver of a memory. In the eyes of most, the very essence of trivia is that it’s trivial— just useless factoids, and ultimately a waste of time.

In my life, however, trivia has been the basis for my competitive nature and passion for conversing about anything and everything.

My dad’s favorite local gastropub doubled as my family’s very own trivia game show set. The Copper Penny, known for being somewhat of a downtown dive, glittered in Beatles posters, Philadelphia Eagles memorabilia, flat screen TVs, and an eclectic collection of road signs and records. We settled down in a family-style booth, my older sister and I, head-tohead, as we prepared for ‘Alex Trebek’ (also known as Dad) to pose the first question.

“What’s the capital city of Malaysia?” my dad asked, dipping the first tortilla chip in our guacamole.

His love for travel meant a geography-dense set of questions, but topics could range from U.S. history to rock ‘n’ roll to SpongeBob Squarepants.

My internal buzzer must’ve gone off a fraction of a second before my sister’s because I won the point for this question.

“Kuala Lumpur,” I responded, probably fumbling the pronunciation in the process.

“Bingo,” said Trebek, gesturing at me as if I had just been awarded five-hundred dollars. My opponent, knowing her forte is in the music category, smirked as she delivered her classic line: “I let you have that one.”

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Whenever Dad leaned back, crossed his arms, and gazed off as if he didn’t have a thought behind his eyes, we knew that he was coming up with a really good question. Or sometimes, it was as simple as pointing to the ceiling and asking, “Who made this song?”

My sister and I looked up, shifting our attention toward the unspecified music source. As I mentally extracted the rock tones from the restaurant bustle and chatter, I considered each late ‘60s band that came to mind. Rolling Stones? Can’t be. The Who? Could be-- my dad’s played them before. As expected, my sister announced her final answer while I was still scraping at the surface of my music investigation.

“Isn’t this The Kinks?” she asked.

Ah, The Kinks. I need to listen to more music.

Whenever I was asked something about music, history, movies, anything that I didn’t necessarily know the answer to, I was given a window into learning more about it. Knowing what I don’t know inspires me to fill in the gaps, however that may be. Just through casual conversation spurring from trivia games, I’ve learned things anywhere from the complexities of navigating Beijing for the first time, to understanding the meaning of Beatles songs given the context of the Vietnam War. I believe trivia surpasses the confining bounds of its definition. It’s more than pointless information; it’s learning about the world, culture, life, and the interests of people around you. Granted, I’ll never gain all of the world’s wisdom from trivia games in a restaurant booth, but it’s an opportunity to challenge myself, learn something new, and spend time with people I love— making the value of trivia in my life immeasurable. Though I may never land a spot on Jeopardy!, or compete for the cash prize on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, one fact holds true: I am always up for a trivia question.

“Plastic Saves” | Dakota Snyder ‘22

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“Bait” | Cabe Lee ‘26

Inside the Mouth of a Killer

Katie Rudow ‘22

In the 1980’s a dentist named Dr. Marvin Fand received the most unusual request of his career. In addition to having a private dental practice, Dr. Fand worked for the county medical examiner. In the latter role, he received a request by the local DA to take a dental impression on a prisoner. He was escorted into a holding cell of a man accused of multiple murders named Richard Cottingham. The dental molds Dr. Fand took became crucial evidence tying the murderer to the crime. Cottingham was ultimately convicted of 11 brutal murders and sentenced to 200 years in prison. However, this was just the beginning of Dr. Fand’s experiences with this notorious murderer.

What were your first impressions of Cottingham?

He made me nervous. The DA and attorney were arguing about protocol and warrants and at one point they left me alone in the cell with him. He looked like an average guy but I felt pretty uneasy! Eventually I took the mold and left. It was only later I learned who he was.

Cottingham was dubbed the “Torso Killer” for his gruesome murders. What did you think about that?

I knew he was a dangerous, bad guy. I think later he took credit for over 80 murders. I believe he exaggerated that, but still he was clearly unstable. He killed many women, chopped up the bodies and lit fires, leaving little evidence to tie him to his crimes. My dental mold helped put him away and I was glad to be a part of that.

When was your next encounter with Cottingham?

Ten years later the same detective called me. He told me they were trying to get more confessions out of Cottingham by granting him favors in prison. His main request was a dentist, as he thought the jailhouse dentist was a tortuous devil. He had severe and painful dental problems. I agreed to treat him as part of the deal to get him to talk.

How did his first visit to your office go?

My practice was in a nice neighborhood and they came blasting in with squad cars, guns drawn and had him leg and hand shackled. It looked crazy! I told the DA, “This isn’t going to work, we have to be less obvious.”

What are some of your memories of his dental visits?

I tried to keep it friendly. I felt I needed his trust for this to work right so I asked him what food he missed the most. He said, “Pizza.” So, I told the DA, “Get him pizza!” I saw his shoes were full of holes, so I said, “get him some shoes before the next visit” and they did, and he appreciated that I think. He started to talk then and gave more confessions of other murders. So, the whole thing worked.

Do you think Cottingham was grateful to you?

I think so since I fixed his problems. He could be quite charming and was a very smart guy. Probably smarter than me. He conned me in some ways into thinking he was nice when we met but he wasn’t, he was insane. I think a lot of those people are like that. They are good at conning others.

Why does this patient stick out the most for you?

I liked being a dentist and was good at it. But, I think for me it was the people I treated, their stories and backgrounds that made my work interesting. In Cottingham’s case, he was crazy, over the top, not a guy you run into every day. Plus, I got him to confess to more murders, which brought closure for a lot of people who didn’t know what happened to their relatives and friends. He’s an awful person, a killer, a liar which at the end of the day is interesting.

After dozens of years now, Dr. Fand reflects on his interactions with Cottingham and believes that even now while the killer ages and declines in prison and has admitted to many additional murders than those for which he was accused and convicted, he did the right thing in helping him.

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“Open Minded” l Aurelia Colvin ‘23

Escaping Amarilla

Bella Santos ‘22

At four years old, my favorite color was light blue, coincidentally the color of Cinderella’s ball new bedroom ceiling. On Football Saturdays, it had to be red, for my parents used to live in Nebraska green and purple, but never before has it been yellow.

Yellow’s a pretty color, sure. It’s the color of my favorite fruit, the namesake for my favorite type of birthday cake, and of course the color of the kayaks I used to ride at summer camp. Most importantly, on the collection of mood rings sitting on my childhood desk, yellow represented “nervous, unhappy, and mixed emotions,” which is exactly how the color made me once feel.

I believe I was in kindergarten when someone rudely said to me, “yellow makes you look more Hispanic.” I struggled to comprehend how “looking Hispanic” could be a bad thing. In my mind, being Hispanic simply meant that my Dad spoke Spanish while talking to his siblings, that my family ate tacos Still, I complied with this newfound critique and cut yellow out of my wardrobe. I was learning that when coupled with my brown Nicaraguan complexion, the color made me stand out in ways I could only fear would make others dislike me. As I erased yellow from my life’s narrative, there was a new color Mom is white,” and then followed with “Oh, and my Dad is Hispanic.” At seven years old I was trying dismissed. from my lifestyle was fairly successful. Even my Mother followed along, knowing that all yellow items could be immediately passed over while shopping for back-to-school clothes each year. My Abuelita, however, did not quite receive the memo as she regrettably brought me a neon yellow dress with “Nictary school, the dress hung in my closet with shame. Turns out my scarlet letter wasn’t scarlet at all, but instead, it was yellow, or even better, it was “amarilla”.

Eventually, I removed the dress from my room altogether, preparing myself for the holy anticifortunately much more diverse than my almost 90% white elementary school yet they still hardly includmy aspirations were less focused on “becoming” white and gravitated towards being comfortable. ing people that I am Nicaraguan, introducing my friends to Gallo Pinto or Horchata Lattes, and going to my local Latin American Festival each spring. It is here I see folk dancers performing Jarabe Tapatío not only in their Hispanic skin but also the clothes which adorn it, but then I remember that nobody is

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Colophon Body text is Minion Pro; most headlines are Bodoni MT, and most name attributions are Century Gothic.

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 PhotoshopCC 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 2021-22 Lead Editors: Bella Santos | Jagger van Vliet Design Editors: Julia Johnston | Betsy Porter | Makenzie Mills Art Editors: Aurelia Colvin | Bella Erichsen Staff (US): Audrey Dahl | Erik Franklin | Cooper Herrett | Griffin Hales |Forrest Merrill Advisors

Financial Support

Emily Fancy Amanda Holliday

Cape Fear Academy

Administrative Support

Faculty Support

Shana Barclay Ed Ellison Jessica Gaskill Lynne Kenney Jamison Fee Gene Whipple Carla Whitwell

Mandy Hamby Teresa Lambe Liz Mendonca Becky Mills Jan Reid Lisa Rojek Maureen Vanscoy

Editorial Policy High Tide literary and arts magazine is an official publication of Cape Fear Academy. Any of the approximately 420 all middle and upper school students (grades 6-12) are encouraged to to submit their work to the magazine. A student submits their work during an open submission period. Adjudication is 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. The staff adjudicated pieces based on voice, style, creativity, representation, 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.

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“High Tide” l Jake Capps ‘28

Awards & Honors ART AWARDS

WRITING AWARDS

2021-2022

2021-2022

Head of School's Purchase Award

English Department Award

Aurelia Colvin, 2023 Sydney Cortina, 2024 Fraley Kelley, 2023

Julia Johnston, 2022 Betsy Porter, 2022

Excellence in Visual Art Award

Barbara Proctor Award Bella Santos, 2022

Aurelia Colvin, 2023

Eastern NC Scholastic Art Awards

Eastern Scholastic Writing Awards

November Woditschka, 2022, Honorable Mention Tessa Zucker, 2027, Honorable Mention

Corrina Basta, 2026, Honorable Mention Megan Cherry, 2026, Silver Key Madeline Cox, 2026, Silver Key Taylor Garriott, 2026, Honorable Mention Sarah Johnson, 2026, Gold Key Milly Kelley, 2026, Honorable Mention Mae McDonald, 2026, Honorable Mention Annie McNamara, 2026, Honorable Mention Kameo Morrison, 2026, Honorable Mention Katie Hayes O’Donovan, 2026, Gold Key Kylie Petrides, 2026, Gold Key Kylie Petrides, 2026 Silver Key Bella Santos, 2022, Gold Key Bella Santos, 2022, Silver Key Jagger van Vliet, 2023 Gold Key Jagger van Vliet, 2023, Gold Key Jagger van Vliet, 2023, Silver Key Jagger van Vliet, 2023, Honorable Mention Alexandria Zakszeski, 2026, Silver Key

National Awards Bella Santos, 2022, Silver Medal Kylie Petrides, 2026, Silver Medal Katie Rudow, 2022, New York Times Profile Writing Contest Finalist

“Clementine Surprise” | Sadie Campbell ‘23

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