THE GUILD
Inspired By... Nature
Skies
Dreams
Scripture
Myths
Humanity
Dear
Artists, Writers, Dreamers and Readers,
I day, or Guild, and ar writin and sta A and te Our th around organi “Inspir Dream Myths
Sincerely,
Paige Connolly, Chief Editor
The Guild Staff
ights
Dreams Dreams
Contents
Scripture Scripture
97-98 Morning in Rowley
Micheal Rogers
97-98 Fragility
Bailey Scarbrough
99 Benson Boone
Katie
Trizzino
Contents
Humanity Humanity
100 Dapper Lisa Frank Skeleton
Perry
Hull
100 Spiral
Carson Taylor
Nature
Fire in the Soul
Carolanne Augustine//Sophmore Poem
What if I had a bottle of fire
Trapped within my soul?
The one that acts like she doesn’t care?
It was quite confused you see, and that made it act out, like a bird in a cage, that hides its power behind a pout. It didn’t know how to escape me. It wasn't sure why it was there. How did it get trapped in this girl’s soul?
Burning Petals
Sarah Dresback//Junior Photography
The girl got told she was unwanted, so the fire began to leap. She patted out the flare quietly, but the flame would surely repeat.
The girl got told she was unimportant. She was not as good as the rest. The bottle of fire began to heat, before she buried it inside her chest.
What if a bottle of fire was trapped inside a dragon’s soul? Would it hide and ignore the pain? NO! It would lose all control.
Yet the fire is still building.
It’s kept quiet ‘In its role’. I guess it's better it's in there though, than for that fire to ever turn cold.
Little Match Girl
Morgan Jakob//Junior Photography
Lexie Chester//Junior
Drawing and Painting
Animation Where’s Pe Where’s Pe
Paige Connolly
Oceans in your veins Fall
Hit the ground running
Through the Sky
Escape the flooded home
Head above water learning to swim before walking
In the Drowning you found strength
Forced under a tidal wave of pressure and expectations
Afraid to Fail Afraid to Fall.
Ocean in Your Veins
Kaelyn Shoemaker//Junior
Poem
Underwater
Morgan Jakob//Junior
Photography
Head Under the Clouds
Kaelyn Shoemaker//Junior Poem
Will you wait under the clouds for me?
Eyes turned upward in silent voice, but acti mind.
Letting time pass not by you, but through yo Swimming with the current, letting torrent you to shreds.
Years flow through your body, leaving behin their thumbprints.
The fallen tree lands in the sand
And it's the river who is forced to make the bed.
When the storm breaks, and the rain falls, You could slip away into the desert.
But when the rain falls, it always leaves a trace, a lingering touch against the world.
When the tempest breaks, the world won’t ever be the same.
Enjoy the gusts of cold since no one in all of history will ever be felt again.
Water etches wrinkles around the eyes as if remembering all the tears you’ve ever spilled Every smile you’ve given waits like the waste of a shipwrecked schooner.
Mirroring the water cycle, you’ve managed to grow
Changing with the grace of the sea
From snow to storm, to steam that burns my cheek,
Will you be the clouds hovering around me?
Alonge//Senior Drawing
Sean Rylands//Senior Photography
Omoloa “zoe”
The Cliffs
Walker Shields//Junior Poem
What if I had a bottle of fire Trapped within my soul?
We want to jump from the cliffs, to describe our greatest fears into one action. Then maybe we’d never come back. We’d fly away in new form, our shoes made new; no longer in the same style we wore.
But yet we stick to the warm mess of heritage and of bills and responsibility. Now we want to jump from the cliffs, to condense our greatest fears into one action.
Then maybe we’d never come back.
From the Heights
Morgan Jakob//Junior Photography
Ellie Bean//Junior
Photography Midnight Rain
The Rain is Real
Paige Connolly//Junior Poem
Photography
Photography
What a Guy
Painting
Sarah Dresback//Junior
Morgan Jakob//Junior
Lexie Chester//Junior
Skies
The Girl Who Wanted to Become a Star
Paige Connolly//Junior Poem
There once was a girl who wanted to become a star. She weaved strands of light by day and by night, dreaming of joining the milky way she saw afar.
With sweating hands between short breaths, she at last submerged her palms in full light, but the sky sat in disarray with cluttered planets.
She would have to wait, she decided, until the day the planets were aligned in dignity.
But when they fell into place in the end, she thought being a star was not nearly enough.
There once was a girl who wanted to become a planet.
She grew trees and blossoms through the seasons, envying the milky way for being perfect.
Through blurry eyes and grimy hands, she at last beheld life in her grasp. But the space holding her echoed with the absence of all the rings she had yet to grow.
So she must wait, she decided, but even when she was surrounded, she was filled with woe. She knew being a planet was not nearly enough.
There once was a girl who had to become the universe. She blew atoms and weaved stars and grew planets, loathing galaxies while muttering curses.
Between a pounding head and blood-stained palms, she at last became so very vast.
But as she shimmered and shone she remembered, what it was like to be a star, what it was like before it all.
But the belts of nebulas choked her.
And as she glowed so bright she realized, she had been burning alive before her very eyes.
There once was a girl who wished she was a star.
In the Moonlight
Sarah Dresback//Junior Photography
Red Tail Hawk
Micheal Rogers//Senior Poem
My grandmother told me never to shoot a red tail hawk
She said that after she is gone she will come back as a red tail
So now when that lonely bird of prey
Puts circles in the sky
I am reminded of her
I am reminded that she is free
But I am here wondering if she knows my thoughts
If her eyes can see me from so high up
I always call up to her
But she keeps on flying
Never says a word
Never a reply
Just flies on until the clouds hide her
And I know in my heart that bird was her
And I know that one day she will teach me to fly as well
Contentment
Emily Papciak//Senior Photography
everyone to listen. Now, the lot of th which way, before the little girl spra her, and as she burned like a rampan momentum and began to tumble. No grass. But this act of clumsiness allowed another to overtake her, a lithe woman, with an angular body reminiscent of a hare.
Suddenly she stopped, throwing her hands before her to balance out her forward drive. She gasped, small and quiet, escaping her like a gust of wind. The others gathered around, panting and crying out in surprise. A melody flooded them, sweet and fast and confident, rushing through the people’s ears and pooling into their minds. At their feet: a gathering of indigo and violet feathers. The bird’s golden eyes looked up at them. They had never seen a bird before, at least, never so close. Birds simply passed over the hill people’s village, finding no trees to inhabit. But this one hadn’t.
awe swirled like silt and mud in the people’s eyes, and hispers, as if they had not been hollering before, they argued the privilege of handling the bird. The clumsy girl, with grass ike a humble tiara, owned the least calloused hands of the was chosen. So, she gently stooped down to the bird, and it dily into her palms. A grin spread across her pudgy face as a her. The bird sang in her small hands. R i ti t t ti they patiently walked back, not ran, to honor the golden-ey
The rest of the hill people cried in wonder. The build from clay and pine straw, shaping it into a hearty throne. T stage of fine stone. The weaver threaded and knit a delicate gold. The baker picked the best seed, baking pastries as pa celebration. They made it in the town square, where people the bird. They placed the golden-eyed bird on the stage an one stared toward the moon, hopelessly entranced by some reach. But the bird was different, because the people could even if not in whole.
And the bird sang. And it sang. And it sang. Tantalizin sweeping ups and downs, beautiful and tragic, surging into with golden eyes danced, flaunting its feathers and talons a day, the people fell in love. They cheered and were merry, dri long after the sunset.
When the festivities were over, they ensured the bird’s comfort, but never put it in one of their cages. The golden-eyed bird was neither prisoner nor possession, if it wanted to leave, the hill people would not prevent it. Greed would not consume them as it had in years past.
Still through the night, the bird sang, and in the morning, it sat on the same eyes glowing. And it sang. And it sang. And it sang. The hill peopl rd, flattered it had deigned to stay. Little children fashioned ed their parents for more and more to give the bird, and more eir parents obliged. The people cherished and spoiled the elated beyond reason by its presence. people would stay up listening to the bird. It sang. And it sang.
ren and adults alike feared sleeping, after all, what if the goldenew away? But it did not, and soon the people had surrounded it easonal plants and intricate tapestries, wooden carvings and limit of the people’s generosity knew no bounds.
ming morning, the bird’s wings unfurled and swayed like new d, its song tearing into the people’s hearts and echoing inside each passing second the bird’s performance seemed to fill every crack and crevice in their bones. The bird sang. And it sang. And it sang. It seemed for once, Eden had continued to exist, the divine overlap of the heavens and earth descending for a moment onto them like that of a blanket, comforting yet suffocating. The people could not explain it, so they danced, and danced, and danced. Until they didn’t.
The people froze. The golden-eyed laughed nervously, the bird would have to st long can one bird sing? But the bird had neve And it will never sing again, the lithe woman Weak, garbling, tortured choking ripped thei bird’s dancing seemed more like desperate t feathers flapped through the air like torn receipts from a regretted purchase. The people’s pupils trembled inside the glossy cases of their eyes, their feet clinging to the ground; they stood still as a stagnated pond. The clumsy girl held the goldeneyed bird one last time, with her delicate hands, as its eyes glazed over, losing their shine, fading to brown. And the bird didn’t sing.
The Star
Paige Connolly//Junior Painting
Dreams
Vocal License
K.T//Junior Poem
Vocal License
Born to be different
But she looked the same
They asked her to talk
But only judgment they gave
Confusion all over
In and through her brain
Grant me guidance and clarity
She desperately prayed
Faithful to listen
But never heard
Faithful to seek
But no one ever searched
Thoughts upon thoughts
Raced through her head
Feelings stacked on feelings
Until she was buried dead
Surrounded by voices
And trapped by her silence
Waiting for the day
She would get her vocal license
Faithful to understand
But never understood
Faithful to wait for help
But knew no one ever would
She came to quickly learn
That people who are different are wickedly despised
And that no one was ever going to hold her when she cried
Dynamic Figure
Omolola “Zoe” Alonge//Senior Digital Art
Wellington Brooker//Junior Woodworking
Ariel Concept Art
h Thompson//Junior
Connolly//Junior
Paige
Mackenzie Campbell//Junior
Photography
Brady Pierpoint//Junior
Photography
Brady Pierpoint//Junior
Photography
Brady Pierpoint//Junior
Photography
Scripture
The Tongue
Amy Harriton//Staff-Faculty Poem
downward sloping lips drip
kerosene, tacky, sticky, oily drops
oozing tear-shaped oracles of sorrow her mouth parts and expels
spewing the toxic sebaceous fuel that coats, covering once sparkling, inviting homes
once bustling, efficient streets once secured, contented lives, now only
Smoldered Blackened Remains.
Proverbs 18:21 Life and death are in the power of the tongue.
God’s Light Through the Shadows
Reagan Marcus//Junior Digital Art
Unknown Trip Hughes//Faculty
Photography
Purging Purgatory
Kelly Rodman//Junior
Short Story PG13
God’s Love
Bailey Scarbrough//Junior Poem
I am wrestling with the presence of an all-knowing God.
I am constantly consumed by the concept of control,
Realizing that my teardrops are falling into the ocean of God’s omniscience that I have yet to discover.
There are so many things that I do to be remembered.
I leave desperate scratch marks against my own soul and psyche,
A result of incessant questioning and deliberating.
I ponder the gift it is to be set apart so specially,
Yet I cry out to heaven at my own shortcomings and failures.
How must I give myself grace to inhale and exhale under the pretense of coming home?
Somehow I still wonder how it is that I am loved and still so very broken.
Somehow I still wonder how it is that I am loved and still so very broken.
Whether they are puzzle pieces or splinters of glass sculptures, My crushed compartments still fit together loosely,
Creating an illusion of unyielded inspiration that simply cannot stand on its own.
How does God stand being the welder of my damaged parts, The weaver of my worries, The braider of my brokenness?
How is it that He sees all of my incompetencies, And still calls me home?
I suppose that I’m learning what it means to be given grace.
Someday I’ll be able to give myself some, too.
God’s Embrace
Katie Trizzino//Junior Digital Art
Myths
Alice in Wonderland
Morgan
Jakob//Junior
Photography/Digital Art
Miles Morales
Ansley Richards//Junior Digital Art
Veilstone
Ava Hurd//Freshman
Novel
Excerpt
Mother and Father had been arguing about moving it. The old temple had housed The Gateway on and off the island for hundreds of years. With the new palace and temple being built, it was time to move it to a safer place. The portal could only be moved on the night of the Moonflower bloom. That was tomorrow night. Father insisted that Mother leave the gateway until it was stable to move, but she was desperate to move it that night. Father never listened to her.
I was practicing my new fire powers in the meadow when I heard an earthshattering scream. I ran towards the sound. An arm reached out and yanked me behind a boulder. Owen stood over me.
“What are you doing? Deamhans have found Veilstone. Find Erica and make sure she is okay. She was with Mother in the gardens. Go!” His golden brown eyes shone like fire. He ran off towards the growling darkness. Fear consumed me, but I ran towards the gardens. Erica was only five. She sat in a golden patch of grass surrounded by darkness and decay. Where was my mother? An explosion shook the ground. I had to make sure Owen was okay. I ran all the way to the old temple. The darkness clouded over the ruins. Then, I saw them. Deamhans. My mother was floating in a cloud of light that seemed to be fighting the darkness closing in. The darkness was winning. Owen was standing in the rubble of the great room. He had
lines of tree roots for cover, fire and water walls up, and lightning striking a Deamhan. He fought valiantly, but he struggled to form another ball of lightning. His jaw clenched, and his face beaded with sweat. He was running out of steam. My chest tightened with anger.
“Owen!” I ran towards him, leaped over his root defenses, and stood back to back with him.
“Donovan! What are you doing here? It’s too dangerous for you! A sevenyear-old should not be in battle!” He yelled over the chaos. I shot a blast of lava at the closest Deamhan.
Everything stopped.
The Deamhans looked at me. Malicious smiles curled across their distorted faces. The darkness that Mother seemed to be fighting overthrew her light. Owen stared at me in bewilderment. Lava magic was the dark opposite of ice magic. How had I done that? The Deamhans took their chance. Then, for only a moment, everything froze. I looked at Owen. His golden hair fell widely around his face. His features were worn and tired, yet he held everlasting joy. He was tall for a fifteenyear-old. He was muscular, but gentle. In slow motion, his face contorted in pain as the Deamhans stole his life force. I remembered all the laughs, the late-night talks, the emotional moments, and the training we had together.
Time went back to normal. I watched helplessly as he was drained of life and magic. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground. His skin, once tanned and warm,
now grayish and cold. I rushed to his body and cradled him in my arms.
“No! No, Owen!” I screamed. The Deamhans took my mother’s graying body. They flashed through the portal. Background noises. All I could focus on was Owen. I held him as I cried. Where was Father? Why wasn’t he here? * * *
“Good evening, Father,” I said stiffly as I sat down. I watched my father intently. It had been nine years since Owen’s death. He hadn’t changed. My eyes shifted to the vaulted ceilings. The jungle wood beams that the Kipos had gifted us during reconstruction glistened in the candlelight. I watched the floating candles bob and float through the air. Pixies and Windies moving them around in a beautiful dance. I looked at the large door across the room. It glowed with the unnerving intensity of the portal. The gateway room had been filled after the portal was moved.
“Donovan, sit up straight.” Father reprimanded. “ I need you to do better in lessons. Erica always-”
“Why is it always about Erica? She messes up, you know. She's not perfect.” I grumbled. Erica looked at her ornate gold plate liner. Father glared down the table at me.
“Never interrupt me. And do not speak of your sister that way. Do not speak until I allow it.” He spoke, his voice dripping with disapproval.
direction to make sure he was okay. I ran all the way to the old temple. The darkness clouded over the ruins. Then, I saw them. Deamans. My mother was floating in a cloud of light that seemed to be fighting the darkness closing in. The darkness was winning. Owen was standing in the rubble of the great room. He had lines of tree roots for cover, fire and water walls up, and lighting striking a Deaman. My chest tightened with anger.
“Owen!” I ran towards him, leaped over his root defenses, and stood back to back with him.
“Donovan! What are you doing here?! It’s too dangerous for you! A seven year old should not be in battle!” He yelled over the chaos. I shot a blast of lava at the closest Deaman. Everything stopped. The Deamans looked at me. Malicious smiles curled across their faces. The darkness that Mother seemed to be fighting overthrew her light. Owen turned to face me and the Deamans took their chance. Then, for only a moment, everything froze. I looked at Owen. His golden hair fell widely around his face. His features were worn and tired, yet he held everlasting joy. He was tall for a fifteen year old. He was muscular, but gentle. In slow motion, his face contorted in pain as the Deamans stole his life force. I remembered all the laughs, the late night talks, the emotional moments, and the training we had together. Time went back to normal. I watched helplessly as he was drained of life and magic. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground. His skin, once tanned and warm, now grayish and cold. I rushed to his body and cradled him in my arms.
“Father, look at the water lily I made out of ice,” I excitedly told him. The lily was so ornate with round petals and delicate leaf patterns. The individual pigments of the icy colors were highlighted almost perfectly. He looked at me with utmost displeasure.
“Donovan, that is mediocre at best. Water lilies are not that rounded, and why on earth would you make it out of ice? Stick to the lesson. Why can’t you be more like your sister?” Exasperated, he walked away. What did I do wrong? She had never made an ice sculpture that good.
“Donovan? Donovan!” I snapped back to the table. Dinner was served. A vegetable soup with bloomberry bread. Erica’s favorite.
“Donovan, you are distracted. What were you thinking about?” His words were laced with disgust. I poked around at the vegetables in my soup.
“I-I was thinking about-” Erica cut me off.
“Father. I think Donovan was thinking of Owen. After all, today was his birthday. Donovan can’t help thinking about what happened. I was only five, so I barely remember that day, but he was older. He was there. I-I made him a cake. It’s a Flamedrop cake. The cookbooks said it was his favorite.” Father sipped on his soup for a moment.
“That is very kind, Erica. We will enjoy that after supper.” We sat in silence as we ate.
“He would still be here if you had listened to Mothe-” I interjected.
“Do not speak her name! You know that Donovan! Why can’t you simply follow the rules?” He shook his head, exasperated. I looked at Erica. She was quietly sipping her soup. Tears in her eyes. When dinner was over, the Windies carefully brought out the cake. It was orange and red like the warm hearth in the back corner. There were glistening blue water drops cascading down the cake. It was perfect.
“Erica, it looks beautiful. Tochrais, please cut the cake.” Tochrais was our Windie housekeeper. I had never truly seen her not moving a hundred miles an hour. She had flower petals forming her dress. They floated freely. Constantly changing into different dress patterns. Her hair was just the ripples in the wind. Her face was soft, her features faint in her own wind. She set the cake down, curtsied, and left. The cake tasted perfect. It was light and fluffy, but it reflected the element exactly.
“That was delicious, Erica. Thank you for making that for us.” He turned to me. “Donovan, do find something to do with Erica tonight. I wish to be alone.” I looked down at my empty plate. As I stood up, my chair scraped across the floor, echoing in the cold, empty hall like a cry for help. I took Erica outside, called the Griffins, and took off.
We soared high above the clouds, over the rooftops of the castle, and behind mystical waterfalls. Veilstone was beautiful at dusk. We flew to the point of the island and landed with a soft thump on the long grass in a small clearing full of
Moonflowers and Pixie Petals. We sat in the cool, dewy grass as pixies braided Erica’s hair with wildflowers, and the sprites played games over my legs, making mushrooms and clovers pop up around us.
“I’m sorry Father was hard on you today. It was a beautiful water lily. I never knew you were so good at ice magic.” She reached for my hand, but I pulled away.
“It’s fine. He’s always tough on me. Today was nothing new for me. How were your lessons?” She stared into the distance. The sun started to set and cast an enchanting golden light on the clearing.
“Father took me into the temple for my lessons today. I wish we could still have lessons together. The temple was beautiful, like everything we had ever imagined. I met the Kipos keeper. She was really kind and showed me some wonderful new spells. Want to see?” I looked at her eyes and saw the blue and green blending and swirling, as if dancing in the light. Her curly brown hair and freckles sparkled with pixie dust. No wonder she was the favorite. My hair was brown and shaggy. My eyes were as dark as the night sky. Father never looked me in the eye. I nodded in acknowledgement. She smiled and started creating the most elaborate miniature garden I had ever seen. There were lilies, Moonflowers, daisies, roses, tulips, crystal flowers, water drop bodegas, and even Pixie Petals. I stared in amazement before jealousy took over.
“How did you make Pixie Petals? They are almost impossible! Who taught you that? Was it Father? Why didn’t he teach me? What makes you so special that you
get to learn things I don’t?” I went off on her. She looked down, and a single tear fell from her face. I didn’t care.
“Donovan, I learned the spell from the Kipos keeper, not Father. The only reason we were in the temple was that Father had to speak with the Uisce keeper. He didn’t want to cut my lessons short, so he left me with Anthakanna, the Kipos keeper. I think I remind him of Mother, so he wants to spend more time with me because he sees her. I’m sorry y-” I cut her off. How dare she speak to me that way.
“I am older! I should be learning the complicated spells.” My face burned with anger, my fists clenched. “You get everything you want! I’m done putting up with you! You sit here and fake pity me while I tell you how I feel! You know what?” The pixies and Sprites hid behind Erica as tears rolled down her sun-kissed face.
“I wish it had been you! I wish you had been the one in the old temple. Not Owen.”
The grass around me shriveled to dust, and the flowers were overrun by thorns. The darkness hit a pixie petal, and it crumpled. I heard a cry behind Erica as a pixie started to wither. As the pixie died, I felt its power and magic fill me. Erica looked at me with utmost horror and deep sadness. I ignored her tears.
“Donovan, please. Stop this. Look what you have done. You’ve killed a magical creature. I don’t understand what darkness has consumed you, but I want to help you. Let me help you. We-” I willed the darkness to grasp her neck. I felt her magical force filling my veins and seeping into my soul. I watched as she died by my dark hand. She raised her hand and sent a beam of light into the starry sky.
A last effort for freedom. A freedom I never had.
“Donovan, please. You’re draining me. You’re stealing my life force. Think-” she struggled to speak, “-think of your core.” I watched as the color drained from her face. Part of me enjoyed the colors dancing out of her core into my darkness. Just before I gained the last of her life force, I was hit with a blast of light and air. I was blown away as Erica crumpled to the ground. As I stood back up, Father was clutching Erica. When he saw me, his face contorted in pure rage.
“What did you do?” He screamed. “You are out of control, Donovan! I always worried you would be like her. I did my best to keep you under control, but you are doomed. You have cursed this island. You were welcomed here and loved, but no more!” His hands grew a staff of light filled with all the Draídecht. His glowing white robes flowed in his wind. “You are banished from Veilstone. You are doomed to wander the world and never return home. Once you leave, you will never find Veilstone again.” His staff gleamed and flew at me. I braced myself as a wave of energy washed over me. My knees buckled. Father stood over me.
“You have disgraced me, boy. You have one moonfall to pack your things and leave, or you will be thrown off.” He turned his back to me and picked up Erica, still limp. Hot tears rolled down my face. He abandoned me. He insulted my mother. What was wrong with being like her? He was the one I didn't want to be like. Mother was powerful, defiant, strong, and mysterious. Father might be the Aethrial keeper, but he wasn’t powerful enough to stop them from taking her.
She could have protected Owen. Father was too busy for his son. His oldest son! My face burned. Fire engulfed my fists. Owen cared for me. He went after Mother when Father couldn’t be bothered. They took her to the old temple, and Owen followed. He fought hard, but Deamhans are hard to kill. I stood up shakily. My Griffin was long gone, so I had to walk. I looked down at my wrists, burning in captivity. My arms were wrapped in intricate woven bands made of pure light energy. I could feel my core rejecting the light. I wandered back towards the castle, through the woods, and past the old ruins. I stopped at the sight of one ruin. The old temple. I saw the aches and the throne of the gateway room. The portal that had caused so much destruction. The temple was crumbling, as if forgotten in time. That was certainly the way Father wanted it. Owen’s grave stone was the only stone that wasn’t covered in vines or cracked. I allowed tears to slip down my face. My life had felt empty ever since his death. The last person who cared about me died in my arms.
Summary of Veilstone
Donovan Moore is a boy with a broken family and a string of horrific events that reroute his life. His Father hates him, he almost kills his sister, Erica, his Mother is kidnapped by demons, Deamhans in Gaelic, and his brother Owen is murdered by demons. After Donovan snaps and steals most of his sister’s life force, he is banished from Veilstone. He then tragically, accidentally kills the Windie house keeper, Tochrais, Gaelic for wind. This death rips Donovan apart and creates the final fracture in the broken relationship with his father.. After Donovan leaves Veilstone, he arrives on a beach and is bewildered by the world around him. The world had advanced, while Veilstone stood frozen in time. As he wanders on a beach, he meets a character from later in the series, Natalia. She is a young child and Donovan takes advantage of her and steals her magic. As he wanders through the world, he meets the Frunglehums. Small, furry creatures that reunite Donovan with his mother, Emmeline. She explains the sad truth of Donovan’s past and family. Owen was never related to them at all. A close member of the royal guard died and left his orphaned son to the Keepers. Donovan and Erica were born of a deal made with the Veilwalkers, evil beings who were born to oppose and destroy magic. They are later controlled by Donovan. Donovan was always destined to be evil and trained by Emmeline. As Donovan learns to control his dark abilities, he resurrects Owen and uses him to blackmail Emmeline, and vice versa. Donovan then goes on his conquest to end magic and destroy Veilstone.
Tom Hiddleston/Loki
Omolola “Zoe” Alonge//Senior Digital Art
Sarah Dresback//Junior Poem
Her young glowing eyes gazed into the night sky
She sees undiscovered galaxies, Endless different universes,
Life beyond the lives back on earth
She imagined someday she would live there
On one of the many different constellations or moons
She would make friends with the various waters, suns, forests
She could breathe all the airs of the world
And take that breath and breathe it into matured minds who said she could never achieve her dreams
She couldn’t wait to grow older so she could finally reach her stars and prove them all wrong
As she evolved, she looked back into that same sky
And saw nothing but insignificant glowing dots of fire
Where were the creatures she had befriended?
Where were the wonders she had discovered?
She blamed it all on her childish delusion
On the constant tug and pull of reality
On the belittling minds of others
On the life of conformity and the young idea of endlessness
That always seems to come to an end
Morgan Jakob//Junior Photography
Fairytale Collection
Morgan Jakob//Junior Photography/Digital Art
Humanity
Trip Hughes//Faculty/Staff
Photography
Justin Allen//Senior Music
There’s More to Being
Michael Rogers//Senior Poem
The mangled materials that make us are not defined by the components, they are not defined by the ideas or the movements. They are what they are, pieces to create a greater whole.
They’re like the roots and the branches that form a great oak. No matter how twisted or broken, no matter how bent, they create something beautiful. They create something immortal, standing throughout the beratement of the ancients and surpassing the deafness of the world.
They are the broken bones and bruises we collect. They are the sculptures made from cracked stones, and the spoons carved from rotting wood.
The beauty in death and the beauty in life.
The intertwined world of love and grace. The defiant souls that stand amongst the crowd but never become them.
The loving minds that choose to become their hearts, the holding of hands that invent a new form of language.
We stand on the edge of oblivion upon the cliffs of creation, we circumnavigate the earth and end up finding ourselves. We are in the hole and born out of the nights, but we fly as baby ducks and earn our place amongst the stars as equals. Sitting as honest, encouraging reminders that there is a way through, that there is a way within and a way without. You can pass through the vapor, or reach inside yourself and find a heart still, somehow, beating.
And then you look up and see Heaven amongst the stars. And the vastness of the universe finds itself in you and you will be consumed by the feeling. It’s not just circumstance.
Bones
Digital Drawing
Ansley Richards//Junior
Black and White
The Canvas Way
Carson Taylor//Senior Music
Davis Webb//Senior
Photography
Skin
Hammond Hodges//Senior Poem
And your skin peels off
Only to reveal
More skin
I didn’t know what I hoped to find
Some deep revelation
A brand new creation But not more of the same
I guess it was obvious But I was oblivious to obliviousness itself
I tried to wash the plate clean And to my surprise I found only A plate
Chester Cathedral
Rich Elliott//Staff
Photography
The Old Dream
Micheal Rogers//Senior Poem
You sit, in the corner of my room stretched thin across canvas, and frozen in your forgotten poise.
But now I see you, old teacher, old dream.
Tell me, did your dark eyes know when the winds of storm would come and fell all the trees; when the fires of industry would arrive, and burn the beloved wood? Did your heart know when the ones who changed would be sent to the west to die in soil not their own?
Do you grieve for their stoic souls?
Do you cry for their forgotten wisdom?
Do you mourn for that old dream long since beaten down?
Did you see it on the rolling horizon, the storm of your time? Or was it a mystery drifting through the mists of the sinking plains?
I hope you did not watch idly as the world was taken from you.
Forgive me old teacher, old dream I did not know you, and I never will. So long, to the adventure of the west. So long, to the memory of you and yours.
The Rise and Fall of Eldest Daughter Syndrome
Bailey Scarbrough//Junior Essay
“You’re so mature for your age!”
“She’s your daughter? No way. You have to be sisters.”
“Are you their mom? You look a little young.”
“Look at our little adult!”
These were phrases thrown at me like gym balls to dodge throughout my childhood, calling to account my normalcy and validity for any inquiring stranger. Whenever I was out with my mother, taking a walk with my brothers and sister, or talking to adults like I was being interviewed for a CEO position, my familial circumstances and personhood were almost always investigated. At house parties, I would be granted a seat pulled up next to my parents at the
“grown up table” because I could actually discuss politics and foreign policies as a child. What seven year old has a cohesive understanding of Obamacare and the Iranian oil industry? What typical child preferred skimming novels by Jane Austen and Charles Dickens over watching Nickelodeon? Here the perplexity comes to a point: I was- and am- a product of my circumstances. With teenagers thrust into adulthood for parents, round-faced children asking for bedtime stories and help with homework at every turn, and constant praise for my maturity, how could I not become the archetype for a heady case of eldest daughter syndrome?
I grew up as a child of parents the same age that I am today- teenagers who loved each other vigorously and grew to love me just as much. I was the little brown eyed, pink skinned product of daydreaming about a life outside of high school hallways and classrooms. My parents fell in love with each other in the unique way that young people do- through endless moments with “fireworks” in their hearts and hormones. They romanticized a little wooden house in the mountains together during Biology class. They planned out their kids’ names and initials while holding hands against their Algebra teacher’s will. By some miracle, their overwhelming affection for each other did not fade. The fireworks steadied to an ongoing candle flame that has sustained and mollified them. From that persisting affection, my little sister was born when I was in kindergarten. I had already experienced the weight of my parents’ dual college education altering my childhood, but then there was another tiny, adorable human to coo over. I was no longer the baby of the family. The curious thing is, this phenomenon kept happening. After her, a boy in my eighth year. Then a long break, where my mother resolved to be done with having children. And then there was a surpriseanother blue eyed, full haired baby boy taking up time and attention in my household when I was thirteen. It was the beginning of my teenage years, and there was a life cycle starting right next to me. I loved him to death. I cared about him as if he was my own child. In fact, I do with all of my siblings.
They have morphed into a space in between my siblings and my own children. I see this in their eyes looking up at me as I tuck them into bed, when they accidentally call me Mom, and in the obligation I feel to their schoolwork and extracurriculars. It felt like I fell into adulthood in my childhood years, like Alice into wonderland.
Across cultures, eldest daughters are burdened with expectations heavier than any other member of their generation. They can also serve as a second mother, tasked with their siblings’ success and well being while expected to effortlessly carry out their own goals and dreams as well. Elder daughters have heavier responsibilities in the household, greater maturity expectations, and higher standards for schoolwork and accomplishments. This is a common phenomenon in families with eldest daughters throughout the world. This occurrence, however, is not as common with eldest sons- they are not expected to grow and become hearth warmers and house tenders, the emphasis on caring for the younger siblings is not as prominent. They have their own specific burdens that come with being oldest siblings, but the load of the first daughter is unique. The trouble with being held responsible for others’ childhoods while one is still experiencing their own is that it causes the inherent inner child to be strangled and thrown into a corner, unable to breathe until responsibility is fulfilled. One becomes a half-life of an adult before their adolescence.
Eldest daughter syndrome is not the only instance in which youths are held responsible for children. Teen pregnancy and children born from children procure a similar phenomenon. A significant switch occurs- the change from preoccupied child to overburdened young adult. I was blessed enough to have a mother who took the challenge head on, growing up in the blink of an eye and putting her 17-year-old life on hold to care for my needs in infancy. However, not all children of young mothers are that lucky. There are countless statistics and data points that prove that children of teen parentage are more likely to have developmental issues and behavioral problems on account of their parents’ absence. I managed to curve this heartbreaking statistic, surrounded by doting parents and grandparents. However, the facts are clear that teen parents as well as their children are at a significant disadvantage to their peers.
In the modern day, teen pregnancy is stigmatized in so many different aspects of society that it has become a somewhat taboo and embarrassing topic for those involved. There is something inherently jarring about generational lines being blurred that elicits such dramatic responses. For this reason, teen pregnancy is rarely discussed, and when it is, it seems to be spoken of in hushed and judgmental tones. Especially in recent decades, diversion from nuclear family cookie cutters are dreaded and scoffed at. This stigma, along with the endless newborn sobs and unpaid bills of becoming an adolescent parent, creates a difficult landscape for growth among those affected.
I’ve heard countless stories over the course of my childhood that reaffirms the existence of these stereotypes- ones that are often gratified in modern media as well. This adds to the circumstantial difficulties that teen moms face.
Despite this and because of this, I consider myself a winner of the parental lottery for many reasons. My parents are loving, dedicated, and hardworking when it comes to me and my siblings’ education and overall well being. They are statistic beaters, trailblazers, and grace givers. They give me hope that I can persevere past normality and pursue anything I desire. They have given me a better life than the data charts say they should be able to do. I’m a well-rounded, intelligent individual, and that’s largely because my parents didn’t choose the easy, cop-out choice- the choice riddled with abandoned hope and a hole where life once was. Instead, they chose the difficult but rewarding decision.
However, that doesn’t mean that it was all smooth sailing. My childhood was filled to the brim with less-than-ideal situations and tired sighs at the end of a day. I felt an undeniable pressure (and I still do, in fact) to be a “low maintenance” child. I tried my hardest to not have any outstanding problems that would require a significant address. I outperformed all of my classmates in elementary school, wishing that my A-pluses in phonics and my highest reading level of the class would alleviate some of the stress on my parents. In the end, I truly believe that my parents did the best job they possibly could have done in raising me in the circumstances they were afforded.
However, the circumstances of my birth as well as the general anxiety I harbored made me believe that it was my lot in life to be as easy to raise as possible. I experienced overwhelming and debilitating guilt whenever I got upset. I tried my very hardest to process my emotions by myself so that my parents didn’t have to get involved. Being a highly sensitive and anxious child, this failed miserably, adding to the inherent guilt of putting another thing on my parents’ plates. They were both getting degrees in college, my dad was working twelve hours a day, and there was constantly something to do, something to fix, something to obtain. I wasn’t a stupid child. I knew that my home wasn’t like my friends’ houses at school. I truly realized that this was a product of my parents’ teen pregnancy when I was in kindergarten. My mom came in to bring cupcakes for my birthday to my class, and all of my friends thought that she was my sister. They were absolutely shocked that this fresh-faced twenty two year old was my mom. And then one of my kindergarten friends said something that I still remember in the core of my bones:
“So- you were a mistake?”
I let that sink in. The word “mistake” rattled around in my head, the dual syllables creating a bird whistle in my head that would rattle and echo for the next ten years of my life. Tears welled in my five year old eyes, not knowing how to respond to my blond pigtailed friend who only wanted to know the circumstances of my birth.
These simple five words would usher in a lifetime of doubt at the validity and efficacy of my existence. My mom jumped in, seeing me get upset. “She was our whoopsie daisy baby,” my mom told the girl, a firm edge to her voice that told her to drop it. She continually did everything that she could to make me feel secure in my personhood and my existence. That did not altogether alleviate the tendency that I had to spiral into a seemingly justified cloud of self doubt in any dark moment. This continued to grow as my family did.
My younger sister was born when I was five years old, giving us a substantial age gap as well as an often stunted relationship. Ever since I was called into my mom’s hospital room after giving birth to my sister, I’ve been fiercely protective of her. I feel a responsibility to her- it is my job to set a good example for her and the way that womanhood should be. I feel responsible for her interactions with young men that she might encounter, with the clothing she wears, with the way she forms friendships. It’s a big sister’s blessing and curse to carry the weight of a little girl’s womanhood. The prism of femininity becomes a point of contention as well as a sense of pride to impose upon someone I love.
On the other end, my brothers give me hope for their positive dynamics with women in the future. My middle brother was born when I was eight, and the next when I was thirteen. I feel an acute awareness of my relationships with men on account of my responsibility to show them how they must treat women as they grow.
When my baby brother was born just as I was starting to figure out what it meant to grow up, I realized that it was to be my job to show him how to treat the girls that he would have relationships with. I will be pushing thirty when he is my current age. My middle brother will watch me go through my teenage years and make mistakes in the way that teenagers do. I will give him a preconceived notion of his own teen years, whether I want to or not. I will be an everlasting and sustaining example for all of my sweet littles for the rest of my life.
And yet, this isn’t a psychology study of family dynamics and hormonal actions of teenagers. This is my reality. This phenomena is my family table, my beautiful exhaustion, the sentences of my story. I have been and will always be the child of a woman who changed gracefully and replaced my cursed narrative with security, sustainability, and persevering love. I will always be the big sister of individuals who knew a sensible-faced, bookish, and anxious girl that did everything in her power to set an example of constancy and wisdom. I look at my hands and the bones of my childhood house and I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my unique circumstances. I am who I am because of the people that have fought for me and the people I have fought for. I am a culmination of courage, and it is my pride and joy to be so.
To Be a Woman
Emma Leibowitz//Freshman Poem
As the Crow Flies
Charlie Morecraft//Junior
Poem and Photography
Cacophony resounds, ringing resolute
Volley after volley, round after round
And yet I hear not a sound
Rolling those alloy atrocities
Up to the line
They’re heard from Paris to the River Rhine
They fire those infernal shells
The great guns make the earth ring
Gunpowder is king
Flocks of fighting, black, bludgeoning birds
Fly even in the sky above my head
When they swoop down, you’ll soon be dead
Soaring high, they have exited their nests
Those hollow jaws of steel
Under this torrent, many a man will keel
These shells, these cannons
Fester in their own malodorous musk,
From fog of morning to powder smoke at dusk
Artillery arks its angry maw
Those birds blast out in a barrage
To penetrate the most dense of camouflage
Lines and lines of metal monstrosities
Loom over a fallow field
Their shrieking shells will not yield
Where they land, only ravaged ruts remain
From some can be heard cracked, dry cries
As body counts climb to astounding highs
Earth’s acne has broken out
Its skin dotted with many a divot and crater
The world’s misery made all the greater
And the shelling has finally ceased
But when the big guns tire
Soon can be heard the rifle fire
My ears bleed, I am bruised and burdened
Around me are the screams of fellows
Backed by the guns and their bellows
And yet I hear nothing
Not one sound
My senses are fettered and bound
East Germany: 1985
Rich Elliott//Staff Photography
I see a dark, shiny crow
It lands by my post
Like a phantom, or a ghastly ghost
I see its shiny, metallic coat
Glint in the smoldering sky
Now I know, I’m about to die
That black bird
Was the last thing I ever heard.
Blue Marble
Micheal Rogers//Senior Poem
Maybe the earth is the combination of particles and dusts and burning rock. Perhaps it’s the figment of the imagination just beyond the sight of a Will that scribes its nature onto the parchment of eternity
Is it the corroding funeral pyre of human decency
Or the adopted son of a burning sphere in an unassuming galaxy
Or perhaps it’s creation in its purity
A place of beauty in every right
Silver fish trying too hard but not hard enough
Is it a dot on the canvas where green living things stretch towards the light
Only to be swallowed up in darkness before morning and the next day
Is it a spinning top where you and I look into each other’s eyes seeing a billion billion atoms that form to make that which we call a living thing
And maybe We feel we fake we fear we fall
But somehow sometimes we step forward and tear and scratch against the typhoon that tries to bring hell up and the might of heaven down
We spring forward in boundless leaps
Slamming into a direction that we hope is just and right
Where Winds roar in the canyons chipping away at the stones with smaller flying bits of grit
Where waves crash like the roar of a behemoth and swallow up little silver fish trying against it all
We crawl through the mud as smoke fills our lungs and our blood flows like rain
We sail on wooden ships going where no man has gone before
We count down from ten and shoot off into an inky black sky to make our eternal footprints on the moon
We sit in the living room and pray because we know that the hospitals are full and the tears fill oceans
We try
Like those little silver fish
But we must not forget We must not forget That on this blue marble We are human beings
Photography:
Delicate Gulf
Frozen in Time
Rich Elliott//Staff Archways
Emily Papciak//Senior Pink Flower
Green
Road
Trip Hughes//Staff Myrtle Wood
Erica Holden//Senior Praying
KM
Morgan Jakob//Junior Sun-speckled Girl
East Germany
Rich Elliott//Staff Children with Border Guard
Balloon Ribbons
Elizabeth Carson//Junior Poem
When I leave, I will forget. It isn’t intentional, I think.
I think the forgetting comes with the leavingmaybe that's why there are so many apathetic adults and unknown selves.
Wandering about museums of lost causes and corpses of time I watch as their faces stay stagnant, and I want to shake them by the shoulders. You let go of your dreams like a child lets go of balloons, callous to the version of yourself that would have tied the ribbon around your wrist.
How do you watch them go so calmly?
I don't want to forget.
I will test out the painful act of remembering like it is a frozen lake
Suspending everything I once loved under its crystal surface and I am scared I won’t fall through.
Walking on ice unaware that it is cracking is not a fate I will resign myself to.
I will wrap up Nostalgia to keep her in my bedroom closet Save her for Christmas time and moments of weakness, Slowly yellowing alongside the ornaments and prom dresses I’ll never wear again.
I will build new tree houses to leave. I will build new castles to forget.
I am scared to forget. Did I mention that yet?
I am terrified of becoming an unsympathetic adult, an unknown self.
Nostalgia
Reagan Rash//Sophmore Poem
Sorrowful sweetness of time gone by holds out its arms wrapping me tight, warm and safe, so tight it aches.
And I feel sore when we part
Returning to the new, rushing world. Yet I yearn for more. More pain, More memories
More happiness of time past, so close I can just, nearly, almost, touch it.
Wesley’s Woods
Stephen Via//Faculty
Short Story
I remember the Creek. That’s what it was always called just the Creek. We couldn’t come up with special names for places back then. Or just chose not to. But the Creek was special. It was a gateway a threshold to another world. Cross that threshold and you entered the Woods just the Woods. But they weren’t just a neighborhood patch of trees and brush. They were a kingdom: a realm with forts, roads, secret pathways, magical hideouts.
And tyrants. His name was Joe just Joe. He clutched his domain tightly with an iron fist Joe’s Woods he called it. He earned it, well, sort of. Joe was the oldest kid in the neighborhood. With age came acolytes. Like a twisted King Arthur and his Court, Joe had his knights, always on patrol, banishing anyone seen as unworthy.
Like me. Me and Wesley or just Wes. We were brothers, not in blood but in bond. It was a bond of steel, forged and refined in the furnace of fierce conflict on the preschool playground. Bitter enemies transformed into a band of brothers. We few, we happy few, we
Banished. Exiled. Cast out. But that was the Creek! Those were the Woods! They were our land! Our home! That place raised us. The growth of Spring; the freedom of Summer; the transformation of Autumn; the solitude of Winter. The rhythms of the seasons taught us the rhythms of friendship, of brotherhood, of life. We couldn’t abandon it. We wouldn’t abandon it.
So, we found trapdoors; snuck in like bandits, but only when we knew the king and his knights were away. These were still Joe’s Woods, after all. We didn’t have the courage to confront the tyrant. Nevertheless, what courage we could muster inspired others those like us, castaways, trembling in fear of the wrath of Joe, stepped into the sun and back into the Woods. Wes and I, the two boys from Robin Hood Drive and Friar Tuck Road, found ourselves leading a quiet revolution. Perhaps it was recklessness (maybe fate) that brought us to that brightly ominous day. Stepping off the pavement of the street, Wes and I and our ragtag band traversed the narrow field at the doorstep of the Woods and crossed the Creek. It was high noon, too early to be safe, and we knew it.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” The voice had to be at least 10 years old! There was a moment shock, quickly followed by a dark realization. There was no else it could have been. Our eyes were drawn up the hill Joe the tyrant was rushing down upon us with fury. The other kids scattered in a panic. Gah, he was a giant! A panicked glance left and right. We were alone. Wes and me. I was turning to make a run for it, but Joe’s palm caught me in the chest first. I was grounded. My mind raced but my body couldn’t follow. I looked up, certain that I was going to stare into the face of my doom. What I saw...was bravery incarnate. I witnessed Wesley leaping from the crest of a fallen tree, arms spread wide like the wings of a falcon, descending onto the back of the tyrant.
Talon fingers sunk into Joe’s shoulders. With a battle cry resounding through the forest and a cry of shock and pain resonating in our ears, Joe was made mortal. Wes took Joe to the ground. The fallen king clawed at the earth to regain his footing, not to turn and face us but to turn and flee.
These were Joe’s Woods no longer. The regent had vacated. No, these lands across the Creek were and always would be Wesley’s Woods. `That name sounded way cooler anyways.
The Broken Tree
Erica Holden//Senior Photography
And you
Th ld ot be the ones who are ‘weird’. everyone was blind And you could see be the one considered crazy.
yone sat in rolling chairs u were the only to stand nd it would be welcomed with open hands. determined by the majority.
So then I ask, we stop enforcing ‘ordinary’ And embrace the extraordinary?
Ode to a Classroom Cafe
Sabrina Johnson//Faculty Poem
Oh comfy cafe’ calling on a stressful day
What, no food allowed, no worries
Easy brings solace that feels like play
Goofing, laughing, oh, working too
Fidgeting, singing, and longing to stay
Can English last just a few beats longer?
There’s rain today, I heard someone say I didn’t notice as I buried my head
In the folds of a blanket of gray
Warm and cozy until she squeaks, “Come out of there. Get to work!”
Oh comfy cafe’ calling on a stressful day
Did you know carpet, cushions, and chairs had powers?
Jack Dart//Junior
“Let us just sit here,” we say
‘Fit checking and lounging
From August till May
Without Harkness circles or deep thoughts
Oh comfy cafe’ calling on a stressful day
Why do our groans and pleas fall on deaf ears?
Photography Sarah Dresback//Junior
Photography
Morning in Rowley
Michael Rogers//Senior Photography
Fragility
Bailey Scarbrough//Junior Poem
In this life, we hope and pray and fight for a notion of a nation that we don’t get to build.
We replace old wounds with new ones and call it healing. We let out guttural screams for our losses and our loves. And we feel just as much for the visceral cisterns left in us before we have a chance to love anything.
Sometimes a lack of love feels just like a loss of love.
How is it possible to live in fear and hope at the same time?
How does one write love letters that will never be opened
Buy baby shoes that will never be worn
Give vows without the guarantee of a promise?
How must I believe in a world where there are no receipts, no fortune tellers, no surefire expiration dates?
Certainty is safety, and me and certainty have never been very closely acquainted.
I live in a world where more genuine prayers are heard in waiting rooms than churches.
But even then-
I have learned that the leaves change
And initials carved into the base of a tree will eventually be dulled down to scratches.
Love can be lost
And miraculously, the earth keeps turning on its axis.
What more can I do
But watch the clouds travel across the sky, wishing I could still find stories in them?
Benson Boone
Katie Trizzino//Junior Digital Art
Perry
Hull//Faculty
Digital Art
Spiral Spiral
Carson Taylor//Senior Music