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Springside Chestnut Hill Academy 2021 Pub 1

Pub’s Mission Statement

Pub is an annually published, creative arts magazine published by a cohort of student volunteers for the Springside Chestnut Hill Academy Upper School. The magazine provides Upper School students with the ability to share their written, visual, and auditory work with the community at large. We hope to inspire and motivate student artists to create, and we aim to celebrate a broad, diverse range of work in each edition of Pub. 2

Pub

Change 2021

P U B

Franchesca DiMichele ‘23 | Untitled | Charcoal

Springside Chestnut Hill Academy 500 W Willow Grove Avenue Philadelphia, PA 19118 www.sch.org | pub@sch.org Pub 3

Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, When discussing possible themes for this year’s edition, the PUB team kept circling back to one idea-- change. Almost everyone can say that they have been profoundly affected by the events of this school year, for better or worse. While there have been many difficult changes this year such as the lack of consistency and routine, lack of social interaction, and lack of adventure, there have also been beautiful changes we’ve seen: new ways of socializing, new connections with nature, new skills learned, new memories made with family, and a resurgence of support for civil rights movements. In addition to all of these, there are the regular changes that all teenagers face: preparing for college and adulthood, shifting friend groups and relationships, navigating tougher schoolwork, the ups and downs of mental health, and experiencing changes to our environments. In this edition, our goal was to wholeheartedly explore the effects, emotions, important figures, and driving forces behind change. We hope you are able to find comfort in pieces that you relate to, and be challenged by different perspectives that you cannot. So sit back, put some headphones in, grab some tea and a snack, and let yourself be changed by these powerful pieces of student work.

Best Regards, Your Editors-in-Chief Meena Padhye and Chloe Brundin

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Table of Contents Prose

Art

Burn by Gabrielle Woolley ‘21.....................4 John Lewis by Juniper Moscow ‘21.........Cover Autobiography by Lenny Lorenz ‘21..........10 Untitled by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23.............1 Tim Burr by Gabrielle Wooley ‘21..............19 RBG by Meena Padhye ‘22..............................7 The Composition of My Freedom by Tobi

Untitled by Tess Fairlie ‘22..............................9

Farbstein ‘21.............................................24

Face by Juniper Moscow ‘21.........................13

The Town by Nia Hodges ‘22......................31 Punk Tim Burton by Madeline Mahoney ‘22...14 A Deserter’s Redemption by Harry Kelly ‘21..38 John Lewis by Meena Padhye ‘22.................17 Still Life by Juniper Moscow ‘21....................21 Portrait by Juniper Moscow ‘21.....................22 Thoughts of My Mind by Anonymous...........25

Poetry this is america by Gaby Leon-Palfrey ‘22.....8 Blanket by Catherine Driscoll ‘23..............16 Life in HD by Juniper Moscow ‘21.............23 Give Me No Change by Sally Thistle ‘22....29 Cleaners by Ava Szalay ‘24.........................30

Untitled by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23...........26 John Lewis by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23......28 Untitled by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23...........33 Portrait by Sally Thistle ‘22............................34 Self Portrait by Iris Wilde ‘22.........................35 Portrait by Franchesca DiMichele ‘23............39

Consume Me by Raven Kilcollum ‘23.......34 Solo Time by Lenny Lorenz ‘21..................36 Poetry is My Motion by Ava Roberts ‘21....37

Music Learn to Run by Will Stutman ‘22..................12 Wilted Flowers by Will Stutman ‘22..............20 Pouring Rain by Will Stutman ‘22.................32 Faded Daylight by Will Stutman ‘22..............34 Animal by Will Stutman ‘22..........................41

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Burn

By: Gabrielle Woolley ‘21 Burn.

and run off laughing. She was a crazy

He watched as his essay turned to ash.

old croon and not even his family, who

It wasn’t good anyway. Just a few words

witnessed his own burning antics on

here and there that managed to get him

multiple occasions, believed her. They

a solid C for the entire semester. He had

blindly watched everything he did, they

written about fire and how man never

would never admit that their baby was

tamed anything, not even the hair on

imperfect. They would never admit that

their head. His teacher, a strict religious

anything in their life was imperfect. Oh,

conservative who may or may not be

how he was incapable of being imperfect.

biased in her racial opinions, slammed

Oh, how anything was incapable of being

it on his desk with a big fat F with the

imperfect. How they assumed everything

word Radical angrily scrawled across

was perfect when they forced it to be, they

the entire first page. It didn’t practically

pretended for it to be. So he burned.

He burned things to release stress. He

matter to him. He simply blinked at the essay, looked at his red-faced teacher, and

burned things to have fun. He burned

gifted her with the most condescending

things for attention. He burned things for

grin he could manage before he burst into

love. Maybe if the blaze grew big enough,

laughter.

if the blaze grew hot enough he’d find

He’d always enjoyed burning things

something, just a burn that mommy and

from setting small trees ablaze to

daddy’s dollars couldn’t heal.

burning leftover paper in the house.

-

Once he’d managed to set a mailbox on

He wandered down the sidewalk,

fire belonging to his neighbor, and now

kicking every stone he came across,

every time she saw him her eyes drilled

wondering how his parents would react

into his skull, but he couldn’t care less.

to his “failing” grades as they would term

Every time he saw her, in fact, it took all

it. A genuine smile crossed his lips. Them

his willpower not to stick out his tongue

caring for little old me, imagine that,

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only 18 years overdue. His head lifted as

“Get out of my office before I rip you out

he ran home, invigorated by the simple

of it.”

possibility of his parents paying him any true mind.

He blinked, he had forgotten he held the charred remains of his essay loosely in

He burst through the front door as he

his hand and his grip tightened with the

yelled, “Mother! Father! Guess who’s

entrance of his father causing some ashes

failing!”

to drift silently onto the floor. He opened

His cry echoed throughout the house.

his mouth to proudly tell his father about

Not a sound responded to his plea. He

his grades, but his father silenced him

called again unsure if his parents were

with a single glare.

further back in the house or not there at all. The only reply was the gentle hum of the fish tank within his father’s office.

His father never

Spellbound by the fish gliding inside their friendly safe haven, the boy began to climb into the tank.

“Get. Out. Boy.” “Yes, sir,” he murmured quietly.

He smelled the reek of alcohol rippling off of his father in waves

allowed him to be in his office, never

which nearly bowled him over. He was

once had he entered, and never had he

surprised his father wasn’t lying in the

needed to. Bubbles drifted to the top and

foyer in a drunken stupor like usual, but

popped in reply as the fish floated at the

this meant his mother lay somewhere

glass, blank eyes intent on his own eyes.

within the house floating away on a cloud

Mesmerized by the tank, he drifted over,

of pills. Something in him broke. His

and gently placed his hand on the glass.

father couldn’t have hums of the fish tank

The fish tried to nibble at his fingers and

to himself. His father didn’t deserve water

even nuzzled the glass. A smile stretched

when he drank liquid fire.

gently across his face, never wavering

He ripped the match he always had

as long as he watched the fish push each

tucked behind his ear and looked his

other just to get to him.

father dead in the eyes while a malevolent

“Boy,” a voice rumbled menacingly,

grin etched its way onto his face. He

Pub 7

flicked the dead match, watching it gulp

their friendly safe haven, the boy began

its first breath in earnest, and dropped

to climb into the tank. The tank wobbled

the match onto his father’s paper-covered

under his weight and the boy almost

desk and giggled as the flames licked up

willingly dropped into the rising flames,

every piece of the fuel in its sight. He

but the fish beckoned him with their

snatched burning paper, not bothering to

eyes, and he knew he couldn’t leave

notice the fire sinking into his own skin,

them all alone. He wouldn’t leave what

and shoved the paper onto the curtains

he learned to love so quickly to burn

lining the windows within his father’s

alone; he wouldn’t leave what loved him

office. The flames gobbled the curtains

to burn. The water kissed his fingertips,

greedily as his father began to shout

giving him a love he’d never experienced

obscene curses as he ran frantically trying

before. Heavy with anticipation, the boy

to find anything to put the flames out.

sunk into the tank as the flames danced

The boy, with his anger sated, watched in

around them. The fish welcomed the boy

a daze as the room rapidly came alive with

with nuzzles and delicate pokes, and one

fire. The boy twisted toward the fish tank

began to nurse his weeping burned hands

and lurched forward as the fish ogled the

causing the others to join in. The boy

scene before them curiously. At the boy’s

gazed out into his burning world as the

approach, the fish wiggled and shoved

fish continued to contently care for him.

each other out of the way. He smiled, for

The lonely boy grinning within his tank of

the fish liked him more than anyone in his

hungry piranhas.

life had ever. The fire inched closer with every second as it gorged itself on the fake happiness that money could afford.

The fire nipped at his heels as he stood with his face pressed against the cool reassuring glass of the tank where the fish swam as closely as they could to him through the thin sheet separating them.

Spellbound by the fish gliding inside 8

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Drown. ***

Meena Padhye ‘22 | RBG | Acrylic Paint

Pub 9

this is america

By Gaby Leon-Palfrey ‘22

this is america,

say,

where a statue stands on an island

turning their backs, they sit back as the

in the harbor making empty promises

racists attack and the cops don’t fight

a torch held aloft

back

as empty eyes stare into the sun

the capitol burns, stones still left unturned, we never learn.

this is america, where yellowed pieces of parchment

this is america

frozen in time, the past beneath glass

where children cry for their loved ones

promise life, liberty, and the pursuit of

hiding under desks, hands clapped over

happiness

their ears

but did hancock sign with his fingers

it’s not enough to silence the bangs and

crossed?

screams that echo through the walls, echo down

this is america

the halls

where george and breonna and ahmaud

that will echo in their minds

and tamir and eric and rayshard and

perhaps forever

trayvon and all of the others, and all of the others don’t matter

this is america

as long as the economy is doing okay

where young girls tremble in courtrooms

where 550 million is nothing more than

as they are forced to remember

a joke, a hoax, they stoke the fires of

as they are barraged with questions,

misinformation

suggestions on how to avoid it

shots of bleach and you’re out of reach,

how was he supposed to know you didn’t

for the love of god, can we just impeach?

want it? and they’ll let him off anyway,

this is america

the boy’s swimming career is far more

those who search for a life in the

important

“promised land”

than a woman’s petty cries for attention.

are promised 6 months in a cage without the chains they’d go insane, they 10 Pub

Tess Fairlie ‘22 | Untitled | Digital Photography

this is america

or juliet and juliet

where the very ground beneath our feet

or julian and romea.

cries for help as smoke billows into the air, we stay

this is america

unaware

where cries of outrage and protest

but who cares when you’re making

are silenced,

millions?

where hatred runs rampant through its

it’s all a hoax anyway.

veins, all the way through to the heart

this is america

whose history repeats itself, and denial is

where love wins until the story is

everywhere

rewritten,

this is america.

and it’s romeo and romeo,

Pub 11

Autobiography By: Lenny Lorenz ‘21

I learned to read out of jealousy.

reading with its bizarre tales of Sedaris’ life. I had graduated from the middlegrade novels and trilogies into real adult books. I read in vans, sandwiched between two sleeping friends, on the

As my classmate, Ainsley, read “real

side of the dirt highways when our vans

books” next to me during naptime in our

broke down, and in my hammock with

kindergarten classroom, I knew I had to

my headlamp, attracting bugs to my face.

learn, too. By first grade, I was a pro-

I slowly made my way through Sedaris’

reader and by third grade, I was finishing

short stories page by page under the

the Harry Potter series. I spent many

southwest sky that summer.

nights in my bubblegum-pink bedroom

When I returned from New Mexico,

reading with my dad. He would read to

I was already planning for my next

me for a little while from a harder book,

adventure: semester school in Colorado,

leaving me to read something easier long

starting just ten days after I returned

after my light should have been turned

home. Realizing that books were cool

off. I remember the first time I finished a

again, I purchased two more of Sedaris’

book in a day. I had checked out Out of

books and Educated by Tara Westover.

My Mind from the lower school library

I had fallen in love with Sedaris’ writing

in the morning, and my eyes didn’t leave

as my friends passed around a copy of

the pages until I closed the back cover.

Educated that didn’t make it to me before

My reading continued through middle

the summer ended, but hearing everyone

school, petering off around eighth grade

rave about it, I put it at the top of my list.

when my workload started to outweigh

The day someone spilled curry on the

the time in my day.

group copy of Educated, we hosted a

The summer after 10th grade, I brought

memorial for the lost pages. I set off to the

a book someone had gifted me on my trip

High Mountain Institute (HMI) with five

to summer camp in New Mexico. The

or so books to read during the semester.

book, Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls

As we set out on our first eighteen-

by David Sedaris, re-ignited my love for

day backpacking trip, I packed one of

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the Sedaris books because I feared the

labs and history discussions. I knew I was

hardcover by Westover would weigh

missing out on something I had set my

me down, but ten days in when I had to

sights on over a year ago. Finally, after

return to campus for a night to see the

about three weeks of doing nothing, I

doctor, Educated went with me into the

picked up Educated again. While my head

backcountry. The glossy white cover was

pounded in the background, I became

quickly worn by the damp air and pine

enchanted by Tara’s story, reading late

needles that carpeted the forest floor. The

into the night with my headlamp.

pages filled with bits of dirt picked up

Soon, I finished Educated and moved on to Little Fires Everywhere. Again,

from late-night reading.

Upon returning to campus, we

I became lost in the story as I read late

were greeted with a BBQ at a nearby lake. We played cards and hosted a fake engagement photoshoot. While playing a game of frisbee, I bumped

into the night after

I felt like Tayo, waking up in a sterile room after leaving a beautiful and deeply emotional place.

having slept all day because the sun was too bright and my classmates too loud. After Little Fires Everywhere, came When You

heads with another student but thought

Are Engulfed in Flames, and Me Talk

nothing of it. I awoke the next morning to

Pretty One Day. Stories offered me a

a sharp and pounding headache that has

connection to something; a way to learn

never left.

when I couldn’t even get out of bed. On

I’ve had concussions before and knew

the days where I felt like I should maybe

I should stay away from screens and

just pack up and fly home, I would plop

reading for a little while in order to feel

down in the rocking chair next to our

better soon, but as one week turned to

woodstove and read. I read away my

two and then three, my headache didn’t

fear of being inferior when all of my

get better. I spent every day in my cabin

classmates were deeply enthralled in

alone while my friends attended science

discussion of the morals of shopping. I

Pub 13

read to forget the painful days spent in

that had made me feel a little normal

Cabin Two, the curtains pulled shut to

was the books I read. I felt like Tayo,

block the sunlight glistening off the fresh

waking up in a sterile room after leaving a

snow.

beautiful and deeply emotional place.

As my peers and I prepped for another

I returned to Colorado and was off to

trip, this time to the canyons of southern

Utah twelve hours later. Ceremony still

Utah, we began to explore native writing.

rested in the top of my pack and greeted

From this came the book Ceremony, a

me as we reunited on the soft desert sand.

story of a native man, Tayo, trying to

The pages turned orange from the dust

fit in between the white world and the

that got into everything that made contact

native world after returning from war.

with the canyons, and filled up with the

The story took place in the corner of New

scribbles of my annotations. The book

Mexico I had called home for multiple

was confusing. It did not have chapters,

summers. As I packed it into the top of

jumped around timelines, and included

my backpack and hoisted it onto the bus,

poems throughout. It was enough to

my advisor pulled me aside. He wanted

make my classmates’ normal brains spin.

to talk about my headaches. We decided

It was too much for me. I longed to be lost

I would go home for about five days to

in the story the way I had been reading the

see a doctor. My backpack went to Utah

first few pages, to imagine the drought,

without me. I was pulled from my books,

to draw on the pages, and to make

and flew home to meet with a doctor who

connections between hummingbirds and

said I should only read for ten minutes at

the color blue. I spent many silent days in

a time. I was devastated. The only thing

English class listening to my classmates talk of the story, crafting my own version

Learn to Run

By: Will Stutman ‘22

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Juniper Moscow ‘21 | Face | Acrylic Charcoal & Pencil

Pub 15

in my head from the bits and pieces I was

I understood how hummingbirds carried

told.

stories in their bellies and why the color

I didn’t finish Ceremony until last spring, long after the snow had melted

blue could bring home branded cows.

When I finished Ceremony, I closed the

from my boots for the last time. I finally felt chapter my friends had closed months connected to my classmates in Colorado.

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before. I finally understood what they had

Madeline Mahoney ‘22 | Punk Tim Burton | Crayon & Pen

when they boarded the bus from campus

of buildings being built on camp to grow

for the last time way back in December. I

into new spaces.

was caught up in a place I no longer was

When the school year started, the

and fell further behind in work at home.

words faded from the pages as I struggled

My brain still had lightning bolts shooting

to contain my headaches. Going to class

through it when I looked at a smartboard,

made my eyes sting, my stomach ache,

and the letters danced around the pages

and my head feel like a small person with

of my English handouts. I turned back

a hammer was inside beating on the walls

to reading. As I crawled into my bed

until one would crack open. I got shots

defeated each night, I would open a

of nerve blockers, tried steroids, and

book and read a page. No matter how I

ended up in the ER until 2 am before our

was feeling, in the books I was moving

first day of in-person school. It was too

forward, making progress even if it was

much. The pounding wouldn’t stop. Pain

slow. I somehow managed to make it

woke me up late at night like the raccoons

through the school year and into summer.

outside my window would when they

I flew to Maine to work at a summer

broke into our trash cans. After our first

camp with the goal of journaling. Words

day of in-person school, I checked into

on pages had carried me thus far, and it

the hospital. With two books in tow, I

was time for me to try it for myself. My

spent the next two days in a druggy haze

journal entries were often mundane and

pushing through the books I had packed.

focused on the weather or what I had to

I wasn’t writing my own pages, but at least

eat for lunch, but still, they propelled my

the stories were moving forward.

story forward. Day after day, a page was

Reading and writing have given me

filled with words to paint a picture of how

immense strength over the past year and

far I had come since last September. I

a half to do things I wasn’t sure I’d be

flipped through news stories and journals

able to do. There was a point when I was

from the camp history collection--

worried about how I would finish high

everywhere I looked there was progress.

school like this and if I should even look

I read of social justice movements

at college, yet the stories push forward,

happening in the world around me and

pulling me along with them. ***

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Blanket

By: Catherine Driscoll ‘23

Blanket.

Sadness is a blanket.

Covering, Overwhelming, Swallowing you whole.

Sadness is a blanket.

Wrapping around, Holding you, Pulling tight.

Sadness is a blanket.

Controlling, Trapping, Hard to escape.

Sadness is a blanket.

Pushed aside, Thrown around, Put away.

Sadness is a blanket, But only if you let it.

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Meena Padhye ‘22 | John Lewis | Acrylic Paint

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Tim Burr

By: Gabrielle Wooley ‘21

attention up quickly enough as he grasped his father’s leg and let out one of his heart-melting squeals. His father

When his parents named him Tim

couldn’t even put up a facade before his

Burr, they did not foresee how hard he’d

face cracked, and he scooped the little

fall.

boy up onto his shoulders as Tim’s bubbly

Tim was a confident clutz of a child,

giggles filled the air. Timothy knew how

the apple of his mother’s eye, and his

the boy’s mother clung to her child, Tim

youthful giggles were one of the few

was the only baby out of six to make it into

things that managed to spark happiness

his toddler years. A husband prepared

within his father’s gaze. Tim’s father was

to turn back to his wife and watch her

named Timothy Burr, an oddly-fitting

eyebrows tick to and fro while Tim would

name for a man as broad as the redwoods

be oblivious to his mother’s secret code.

in the forest surrounding their family

“Daddy! Daddy! Tree hunt and I will find

cottage and as quiet as a doe slipping

the most big one,” Tim squeaked.

through the undergrowth. His mother,

Timothy smiled as his son began to swing

whose sharp beauty resembled that of a

his feet into the air and said, “How will

fox though at times she may seem to lack

you carry back that tree?”

the cleverness of one, couldn’t contain her tired excitement when she had the boy and shortened his name in order to

“I’ll make you carry it! You can carry me and Mommy!”

His father turned back to his wife,

hold him to her as quickly as possible. She

who stood with her head down as she

coddled her first and only child as much

nudged the dirt with her bare feet. The

as she could, but lately, he’d been eager

boy couldn’t be sheltered for this long,

to venture out with his father into the

Timothy had been raised on the shoulders

woods. She struggled to hold onto him,

of his own father as he transversed the

but his attention waned from old legends

mountains that had kissed the doorstep of

of the siren in the mist to the new coats of

their worn out log cabin. It had instilled a

sawdust on his father’s boots.

sense of adventure and curiosity that had

One day, she couldn’t snatch his 20 Pub

once brought him to these very woods,

and he had never left since.

push the other away for clinginess, but

He pulled his wife into his arms

gentle Timothy never complained. A part

and carefully balanced his son on his

of him relished the attention and another

shoulders. Her eyes flickered nervously

part simply couldn’t get away from her.

to Tim as he began squealing with delight

She had walked into a small clearing

as he tipped over onto his father’s head,

within the forest, overlooking a plain

but her husband consumed her attention

cast in gray by the sympathetic sorrow of

with a happy kiss on her lips. Their

the sky; a sheer cliffside which her body

lips broke apart but he held her close

teetered precariously over divided the

as his eyes flared with a protective spirit akin to that of a mother bear.

It was unbridled passion and warm love seeping into her body through his eyes which finally forced her to concede.

She glanced

rueful trees from the

The leaves shook as the boy’s small legs struggled to lift him higher than the roots of the giants surrounding him, so he could peek into the surrounding him so he could peek into the heart of song.

solemnly at her

saddened grasses.

She shook her head and rocked back off of the ledge and laid mournfully on the ground. A pressure built in her chest, pushing aside her lungs, and crushing any thought from her mind as it clawed its way up into her throat.

cold cottage as the door yawned open

A melodic wail broke through her lips as

into a now-lonely abyss. She stuck her

she began a painful forgotten tune.

arms out and spun in a silent circle

The songbirds held their breath, they

wishing her son ran around her instead

hadn’t heard her tune since the wood

of the pitying whispers of the wind. She

man wandered into the forest in a dazed

hadn’t been alone from the moment she

trance. The stags courageously crept

met her husband, she had followed him

from cautious hides, sleepy spring drones

everywhere to the point where one would

righted from hearty honeysuckle hopes,

Pub 21

turkey toms halted haughty hillside pecks,

The little boy swung his arms as he

and tiercel hawks stilled starving soars.

moved deeper into the forest as the wind

The songbirds couldn’t hold in their

tried to lull him back to the wood man.

praises any longer, they belted out the

The wind desperately shoved aside

glorious tune as the forest came alive with

millenia-old leaves; tossing moths into

coos, caws, yaps, and yips to try to spread

the air who left on wings of pixie dust,

the song through the very air of the forest.

revealing sparkling treasures who never

Tim Burr shook off his memorized trance

once graced the eye of man, and throwing

of watching his father hack down trees

old legends into the open, but the boy

taller than he could ever hope to be and

never faltered.

said with widening eyes, “Daddy, that

He pushed on as nightfall crashed into

song is pretty,” as he tottered into the

the blue sky with an explosion of white

woods to find the source.

glitters who winked curiously at the boy

The burly wood man, Timothy, sat stuck in the song of his ax against the trunk and didn’t see his precious little

as he continued his slow journey with the wind tugging at his heels.

His mother crawled from her grief

boy slip into the woods. The forest

as the sun blinked its last pitying

shook their leaves struggling to catch

reassurances and listened to the mimicry

the attention of the wood man, but the

of the forest until a raven fell at her feet.

cries of their sister were too great. The

It was a gigantic creature covered in

screaming rhythm sucked the wood man

sawdust, but as nightfall crashed into

into a place of contemplation and wonder

the blue sky with an explosion of white

so grotesque to both the wood man and

glitters who winked curiously at the

the forest.

boy with the wind tugging at his heels,

Wilted Flowers

By: Will Stutman ‘22

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the raven expanded until it became the

cries became raven screeches guttural,

night and the sawdust on its feathers the

terrifying, warning. They cried as they

stars. The moon, its eye, beat into her,

ran, and flew, and fell, and dove.

its feather of night suffocated her as she

The little boy heard voices in the

breathed in the stars. The crickets within

woods, voices too unnatural to be true.

the night rose until together they formed

He began to run through the woods

its deafening caw, “The boy never loved

twisting this and that trying to find his

his father’s song, all are weak to siren

mother. He desperately spiralled further

call.”

and further into the night. The night

His mother and father screamed into the feathers of night until their voices choked raw from sawdust. Their

Juniper Moscow ‘21 | Still Life | Oil Pastel

raven swallowed him as Tim Burr fell off the mourning cliff of his mother. ***

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Juniper Moscow ‘21 | Portrait| Gouache

Life in HD By: Juniper Moscow ‘21

So vibrant and vernal is my setting Although not sunny nor spring, perhaps Yet even without color it’s begetting Of profuse life, into which I relapse Fertile with conflict, emotion, and strife Stirring within me such love and rapture No matter the problem, in me delight So pleasant, even the worst disaster Where I am, life is just two dimensions A beautiful web, invigorating So stimulating, the screen’s invention It’s falsities encapsulating Collapsing now as I close my laptop Now darkness surrounds, that life to a stop

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The Composition of My Freedom

By Tobi Farbstein ‘21

They had come from California, China, Russia, and Ukraine. They spoke fluent sheet music in multiple clefs before

grandparents for driving all this way to see me.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” My

kindergarten. A piano sat in their nursery

grandfather responded. A week prior, he

before a crib. They seized admissions to

had told all of his friends that his “prodigy

Julliard as middle schoolers and would

granddaughter” was playing piano at

become bilingual in both the piano and

Carnegie Hall.

violin. They had practiced their whole lives with a goal in mind.

*** All I remember about kindergarten was

“I like to play piano sometimes…”

my teacher’s best friend: Ms. Clark. Ms.

I would tell my friends in sixth grade.

Clark greeted each student with a smile

Then, I would rush home and gossip

and listened patiently as they talked. She

with my piano teacher for thirty minutes

conducted dance parties and celebrated

before starting my lesson. My dad secretly

after each correct answer in class. She saw

wished I would quit the piano and take

her students like extensions of her family

up the guitar. I secretly wished I would

and protected them like they were her

quit the piano and take up chatting with

own. During recess, our classes played

my piano teacher for fun. Regardless,

outdoors together. While my friends

four years later, I still ended up marching

raced to see who would play first on the

across the stage, bowing in my long flowy

monkey bars, I would spend the period

dress, and standing proudly next to the

talking with Ms. Clark. Years later, I

child prodigies. In the background, a hint

discovered that Ms. Clark would return

of broadway and bright lights twinkled

home and tell her mother about the young

through the tall glass windows. I had felt

brown-haired girl that she spent an hour

as if the Statue of Liberty, or her official

talking to at recess. To my surprise, we

name, Liberty Enlightening the World,

were obsessed with each other.

had extended her hand and guided me

Next, I remember sitting in the car with

to the stage. She stood with a calming

my mom driving home from Hebrew

presence, easing my nerves as I had

School. I pawed at the snack bag on my

pressed each key. Later, I thanked my

lap and blurted out the question:

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“Can I take piano lessons?”

“Why piano?” My mother asked. Our family was not particularly musical.

“My favorite teacher at school teaches

roses at every recital. Piano, at that point, and every point after, was more than intellectual: it was personal.

Around the same time I learned to read

piano, and I want to hang out with her.”

sheet music, I studied how to interpret

I said.

books and write the alphabet. I was no

“Let me talk with your father,” my mother responded.

more engaged in music than I was in my literacy, yet my musical talents surpassed

I was later gifted a small keyboard.

my reading and writing skills. I had slop-

Every Monday, my mom would drive me

pier handwriting than children often do

to Ms. Clark’s house where I would take

and struggled to read outloud. I tripped

lessons.

over the

During the

words be-

first couple

fore falling

of years,

and peering

piano bored

bashfully at

me, but I

the floor: I

did it for

understood

Ms. Clark.

the mean-

I hated

ing, but I

practicing

was unable

yet counted

to commu-

down the

nicate it.

days until

In English

Mondays after school where I’d be with

classes for years to come, I was pulled

Ms. Clark again. With each year that

out of class and into “special” reading

passed, my skills advanced and my pieces

groups. Teachers would coach me as I

grew harder. My relationship with Ms.

worked on translating the words on the

Clark progressed and I dreaded piano

page into a language that I could express

a little less. Like lifelong friends, Ms.

verbally. From elementary school on,

Clark and I talked about life, carpooled,

each of my essays earned poor marks, and

ordered pizza, and got ice cream

I didn’t care: I blamed it on poor gram-

together. I attended her wedding and

mar. In middle school, I could (some-

curtseyed before giving her grandmother what) read out loud and write neater, but Anonymous | Thoughts of My Mind | Digital Pub 27

I couldn’t seem to compose the words in my head. I could, however, play them.

As a sixth grader, it occurred to me that I had found a sense of expression far

Then, the whole piece in a month.

The piece had done something no other language or writing had done before: it caught my attention.

In the past, I was limited to the

fluently read outloud. With Ms. Clark,

simplistic aspects of my education,

I was able to choose what I wanted to

never stemming beyond “average” or

play and the music I studied. At school, I

“mediocre.” I never once thought to

didn’t have this liberty, and thus I learned

challenge myself academically to the

to hate reading books and writing essays.

extent that “Vesuvius” did musically. If

Instead, I grew to love piano as much as I

I could play “Vesuvius,” I could write a

loved Ms. Clark.

solid essay and read like the other kids.

In seventh grade, I played “Vesuvius”

Suddenly, I wanted to be a student. At

by David Lanz. This complex piece

piano, I was taking in the wonders of

challenged me to rapidly alternate my

intellectualism, and even academia,

fingers between a single note while continuing to play the melody in the same hand. As I read through “Vesuvius” for the first time, my hands ached. As the wooden keys stretched my fingers apart, the discomfort startled me. I had never played a song like this, yet I was now asked to perform one of the hardest pieces at the recital. I wondered, why me?

My piano skills were nothing more than average for a kid my age. Regardless, something about the piece clicked, and for the first time, I was excited to study. I learned the first page in a week.

28 Pub

Franchesca DeMichele ‘23 | Untitled | Acrylic Paint

before I could write comprehensively or

not for my future but for myself. What

into my own hands and discovered my

would I be capable of if I took the values

academic potential through something

of my education within school like I did

deemed solely an

at piano? What if I tried, not to succeed

extracurricular. By mastering my potential

for a grade, but for my own personal

within school and at piano, I explored

betterment?

the value in all that I saw outside of the ***

When I was younger, I studied the

classroom. With piano, I discovered that I was capable of teaching myself to mimic

songs that were popular amongst many

what I see through painting, express myself

of my fellow piano students. In middle

through writing, and soar above the world

school and high school, I was engrossed

through flying an airplane. Without the

in Bach, Beethoven, and even Chopin.

inspiration from a school or a university, I

Their songs were deemed “impossible”

shaped myself. Ultimately, these passions

by early scholars, yet I found myself

supplemented my education and showed

playing them as a freshman. These

me what I was capable of.

songs were unpopular and, at times,

Even after I found my musical potential, I

inconspicuous; however, they were

was not satisfied. I would sit on the bus and

unique. They inspired me to bring forth

hope to be something more. I envisioned

my potential to the world. Today I can

myself sitting on the stage at Carnegie

read and write, but I am no more free

hall and playing like the scholars before

nor capable of expressing myself than I

me. In tenth grade I had the opportunity

was before my traditional literacy. Sure,

to submit a video of my playing to a virtual

I can write a ten-page essay about how

international music competition. High-

a poem made me feel, but why not show

ranking performers were asked to come

that emotion in music? Isn’t it the same?

and play a recital at Carnegie Hall in New

Doesn’t it provide the same expression

York. I got second ranking. Nowadays,

and thus freedom?

I have gone as far as I wanted to go. I’ve

Throughout highschool, I’ve had

played piano at Carnegie Hall, and I am

people call me a piano prodigy, but I

now free to continue exploring music how

never once believed it. At school, people

I wish.

began calling me smart, and I never once

There is something further to say about

believed that either. I was neither smart

education, however. What happens to

nor a prodigy but merely hardworking. I

educators like Ms. Clark? The people

began applying myself. I took education

who started it all? As a student, education Pub 29

founded my individuality and sparked my and hope for the betterment of children intellectualism. But, as a teacher, what’s

like me. They are selfless and do not keep

in it for Ms. Clark? There’s something

their knowledge to themselves. Instead,

special about Ms. Clark and those who

they pass it on with the hopes that future

educate others. I wouldn’t be myself

generations will do something great with

without them. Teachers like Ms. Clark

it. Like Ms. Clark, They carry the weight

show us how to navigate the stairway to

of my future, and the future of humanity,

civilization and how to climb with ease.

on their shoulders.

They care about the future of their society

Franchesca Dimichele ‘23 | John Lewis | Acrylic Paint 30 Pub

***

Give Me No Change By: Sally Thistle ‘22

He grabs the butt of the multi-grain bread

Electricity pulsing through her body as

out of whole wheat packaging at 7 am

an image of another world dances in her

Twists the recycled bag until it’s taut in

head

his grip and grabs a decaying twist tie

“Daddy can I tell you my dream?”

But the forest green tie snaps under the

“No, you have to wait until after break-

pressure of the years, damn

fast”

Give me no change, so I’ll be the same

“But what if I forget what it means?”

person that you once held at the dusk of

“Well, then you shouldn’t have asked”

the world’s goodbye

He turns away to look at the grandfather

The radio button clicks with a swift move-

clock pinned to the wall

ment, his ring finger telling his middle

Give me no change, so no time will ever

finger to scram to the music

pass.

The air crackles and pops, before coming

He turns away from the soft face of the

to life like it did yesterday and will today

little, now dull girl bereft of her light

The same station plays the same jingle

Give me no change, then everything can

that it will tomorrow

stay the same.

Then, two googly eyes attached to the face of a long haired girl wander down the stairs

Pub 31

Cleaners By: Ava Szalay ‘24

I have the cleaners come every

I take their tireless title and polished ears.

Wednesday,

And drag their lobes as they gag,

to dust and drum,

forcing them upstairs.

on shaved shelves

I prick their skin, like bubblegum

shadowed by germs and mud,

and watch them say their prayers,

and rugs weary

then remove them from their chairs,

with bloods from pinky crumbs,

to bury them downstairs.

blood that I have dripped

Occasionally I doubt my intentions,

from people’s thumbs.

let my insides ration my guilt.

Only when they tell

Sometimes it’s hard to see their families

me how helpless, and humorless

cry,

my being appears

shrivel

as they drink brandy

and barely make it by.

and sneer,

But, I continue to drag, drip and let them

looking down on my job--

die

not their preferred career.

Because when the cleaners come; to fiddle and find I get some time To breathe and realize, I’m not really such a “bad guy”?

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The Town

By: Nia Hodges ‘22 Jeremy Extant hated funerals.

to walk down the street, he realized that

There was something about the finality

he needed to acknowledge his own role

of the whole ordeal that truly bothered

in creating the hatred. In the breaking,

him. He could barely stomach seeing

many had lost both their homes and

the casket; a torn chapter in a chaotic

their lives. He was extremely fortunate.

book that made his fingers twitch with

Miraculously, neither poverty nor death

discomfort. He didn’t want to be there,

seemed to touch Jeremy Extant. He

and more importantly no one could

remained a drifter; flickering in and out of

suppress their own discomfort in his

the large house his family had managed to

presence.

keep within their grasp for generations.

Of course, this was all simply speculation on his part.

But to Extant, the crowd’s discomfort

He understood the envy, and sympathized with the destitute. He understood the glances at his pockets, as if staring hard

was a flashing danger zone. He often

enough would make riches spring free.

trusted his own infallible sense of

But at the same time, why should he

predicting danger even at the expense

be made to pay for fate? He could not

of popular opinion. At this moment, he

help that disease ran rampant, or that

could not deny that there was something

he owned a nice house on the eastern

undoubtedly strange about the entire

mountain. He could not help the fresher

situation. Why did Violet glare at him so

air that lived there, and the rare flowers

from the other side of the casket? Why

that blossomed every winter, immune to

had Nick refused to engage in their usual

the howling winds.

conversation by the side of the cafe?

Why did it seem as though this entire town hated him in life more than they wished to mourn her in death?

As he exited the ceremony and began

He could not help those unable to help themselves.

Extant knew that when the bloodlust frenzy faded, his circumstances would not change. Survival waited for no

Pub 33

man, and gifts were never meant to be

Extant made him nauseous.

opened without the proper recipient. He understood this, and the corners of his

In the center of the fire, stood his house.

mouth lifted with the everyday knowledge

It was exactly as he had left it in haste

that for him at least, years were within his

this morning. He could just make out the

grasp. He was going home.

cracked vintage television in the front

“Extant, come quickly!”

room, and the dim light in his bedroom

Extant flashed his eyes forward

that continued to flicker unthreatened

and landed on the tense form of Mr.

even as the flames engulfed the front

Gravewell, sprinting towards him down

porch and began to stretch upwards

the lane. “Whatever is the matter, John?”

towards the second and third floors.

“Fire!” John gasped, practically

It dawned on Extant, a realist, that

keeling over on the concrete. “Fire on

tomorrow in the ashes he would find most

Elm Street!”

of his prized possessions stolen along

Together, they sprinted towards Elm,

with his food supply. He had no doubt

Gravewell stopping every couple minutes

that Violet and many others in this town

to regain his breath. Smoke dotted

would sleep soundly tonight richer than

the azure sky, beginning to threaten

they had been the night before. How

the promise of daylight. Extant felt his

could they do this? Why did they all treat

throat constrict as his feet hammered the

him with anger and such hatred?

pavement and fought the urge to scream

With tears in his eyes, he gazed up into

in anticipation. When both men finally

the smoke and released the remains of his

rounded the corner and reached 22 Elm

family.

Street, the sight that beheld Jeremy

Pouring Rain

By: Will Stutman ‘22

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Pub

Gravewell gazed up at the wreckage

in horror. “I….I….don’t understand,”

Gravewell. “She was one of the good

he exclaimed, staring into the golden

ones.”

tongued flames. “How did this happen?”

Extant did not offer a reply, but shook his head as if trying to ward off all memories of this dreadful day. He had lost almost everything. He had lost

Again Extant did not reply, but simply hobbled away from the burning inferno and down the lane.

Barely alive, but surviving nonetheless. ***

almost everything, and yet he still lived.

He still lived

Franchesca Dimichele ‘23 | Untitled | Acrylic Paint

to begin again, a phoenix reformed from the excruciating ashes of his past.

He still lived.

“I’m sorry about your wife Jeremy,” remarked a somber

Pub 35

Consume Me

By: Raven Kilcollum ‘23

put my headphones on and get Lost pestering thoughts left in the past like diving head first into a pool of bliss allowing the water to slowly Consume me don’t fight the urges to resurface allowing the bliss to Consume me if i crack an eye open i can See an ominous light in the sky above so i let my eyes rest and let the waves, in the key of Life

Sally Thistle ‘22 | Portrait | Crayon

Consume me.

Faded Daylight

By: Will Stutman ‘22

36

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Iris Wilde ‘22 | Self Portrait | Acrylic Paint

Pub 37

Solo Time

By: Lenny Lorenz ‘21

It’s Sunday,

Reflection space.

the pine grove is

I realise I have forgotten

ravaged by early June storms.

my journal and the current book I am reading. I pick up

The November air

the pine needles, crumbling

bites my ears

their weak spines between my

as I curl up on the

fingers when my step

bench to watch

mom walks over.

my dad and step brother play.

She sits down with a loud exhale.

She leans on my tree touching my arm

They shoot Nerf darts

her legs stretched up to the sky.

through the trees

at each other

She groans as her body stretches.

My heart races.

dead pine needles dropping out of trees,

This is not my “solo time” anymore,

their only victims.

I am no longer here to make peace with nature,

Further into the grove,

to break the spines of pines,

I find a tree to rest my back

to understand why I wander

on. I flash back to the times

into the woods to sit by myself

I sat alone in

and just think.

Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah, “Solo Time” they called it.

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Poetry is My Motion By: Ava Roberts ‘21

Poetry is my motion The words are my devotion I come through with a flow sicker than the ocean Rhymes come through like waves causing a commotion Pushing my pen to paper Is like nourishing a land full of acres

Hate can’t conquer my passion That’s like me not taking a stand on a cause that needs action Day in and day out I feel exhausted like my energy is drained by a drought My mom shouts without a doubt To get out of bed and attend this workout I can’t count the amount of times I dreaded going Or the times my coach said you need to keep throwing I glide with a quick stride Take a heavy stand, and watch the ball leave my hand This 9lb ball is heavy, but I have balance to stay steady After all this practice will I ever truly be ready?

As I take a reflection of all my pain and rejection I realize the past won’t last, but my future will surpass Sometimes, I have to go in overtime to define the critics As they try to judge my statistics Yet, there is not one thing they can mimic of my characteristics Envious of my ethics because my outcomes are mostly epic Not supporting me, but rather try to tear me apart I’m not a puzzle, but guess what, I am a work of art When I fall, it’s like no one’s there The irony is when I’m on my feet, everyone wants a piece of my wins to share But guess what, life’s not fair And I have to hold myself up first during times of despair Eventually, I had to flow in the wind solo to find my drift My style is one of a kind, more rare than something I found at a thirft I have this conflict, but I predict That I will commit to something legit My ideas and emotions circle like a merry-go-roundBut I have regained my confidence that could once be seen in the Lost-and-Found Don’t let fear stand in the way Find those people in your life that will help you make change today

Pub 39

A Deserter’s Redemption By: Harry Kelly ‘21

The night sky over the infinite grassy plains was silent as the grizzled man looked off into the distance. He watched a group of dark grey storm clouds quietly move through the air as they slowly enveloped the midnight moon, shutting out any natural light. To his right, a small fire crackled and clicked like someone was stepping on branches. To his left, a small makeshift portable tent, made out of an old cotton blanket and the wood he found by a nearby river, swayed back and forth gently with the wind. Behind him, his horse, fast asleep and tied up loosely to a tree, breathed in and out softly. Beneath the old chair where he sat, a group of ants quietly moved a collection of small pebbles and sand to form their new home.

The man wore an old military uniform whose color had faded over time to the point that he couldn’t remember what it had been originally. An old, dark brown cowboy hat, with a hole about the size of a bullet through the brim, lay on the back of his head as if it was trying to not fall into the flames beside it. He had a white beard that had run its course across his face 40 Pub

and had now started to make its way down his neck. His grey eyes complimented a face that had clearly been through a lot. A black scar passed through his right cheek and down his jaw. A piece of his left ear had seemingly disappeared. On the back of his neck, a red letter “D” branded on his skin, a message from the US military to the whole world, “This man’s a deserter, and should be treated as such.” But that wasn’t what the man was thinking about as he picked up a scratched and dirty guitar, which he had found years ago abandoned on a street corner. He gently twisted the tuning keys, causing the instrument to exhale a small squeal. Once he was satisfied with each individual sound that each guitar string emitted, he began to slowly play the same song that he had for all the nights previously. After repeating the beginning instrumental opening a few times, he began to whisper along to the song, his deep southern voice cracking while he tried to reach the high notes of the song.

“Oh bury me not on the lone prairie...

These words came low and mournfully from the pallid lips of the youth who lay there dying...In a narrow grave, just six by three, we buried him there on the lone prairie- ”.

He stopped. Off in the distance, illuminated only by the moon’s light, he could see a lone silhouette making its way towards

Franchesca DiMichele ‘23 | Portrait | Pencil

Pub 41

him. He squinted to see if he could make

sighed and quietly said, “Joel. Pleasure to

out who or what it was exactly, but his

meet you…” He then looked back down

tired vision failed him. It was only once

and began strumming the guitar again,

the silhouette talked that it was revealed

trying to remember where he had left off.

who it was.

“That’s a mighty nice voice you got

Micah laughed, “Not much of a talker are you? Well that’s understandable, given the

there mister! Ooo-eee I could listen to

times we’re in right now, it’s probably for

that all night,” a high southern voice

the best.” He took out a brandy bottle from

exclaimed, as the person emerged from

his bag and began to drink from it as he

the shadows and became illuminated by

watched Joel play. After what seemed like

the flames. He was a bald young man,

hours, and after Micah had gotten halfway

with skin pale as the stars above, and

through the bottle, he staggered up from

a dark red cotton shirt with ripped up

the log and grabbed his things.

grey pants. He carried a hunting rifle,

“Well Joel, I have to say, it was a genuine

along with a small ammunition bag. The

pleasure to meet you this fine evening. I

most striking feature, though, was his

can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed

feet, completely barefoot and bright red

something so much so I appreciate you.”

from all the cuts and bruises that must’ve

He got up and made his way over to Joel to

come with not having shoes to protect

shake his hand. As they extended their arms

them.

to shake, Joel noticed something that the

“Name’s Micah,” he said as he made

darkness had obscured until now. Micah’s

his way to the fire and sat down on a bro-

shirt was red, but not completely, rather, it

ken log. “Sorry to bother you but I was

appeared that it was splattered throughout

hunting around and I heard you and I

the shirt as if somebody had spilled some-

just knew I had to come over to whoever

thing on him, or rather, somebody had bled

was singing that great song. And your

on him. As Joel studied the shirt more, he

guitar playing too! My word! I haven’t

realized the blood covered a horizontal-

heard someone play like that since I was

ly-striped grey and white shirt. A prison

up at San Quentin… But where are my

inmate shirt. He remembered Micah’s feet

manners? Your name sir?”

and how they were strangely beaten up and

The grizzled man remained silent for a moment as he scanned Micah, but he 42

Pub

covered in blood, as if he had to make a run for it in tight chains before ripping them

off...

in and out rapidly, like he was hyperven-

Before Joel could even react in fear,

tilating, before he ran out the tent and

their hands had already intertwined in

towards the edge of the encampment.

a firm but awkward hand shake. Micah

Once he stopped, he scanned the plains for

nodded and made his way back out to

any sign of Micah. He cursed loudly as he

the dark plains. But as he turned away,

struggled to find him, until he finally found

the flames revealed a twinkling golden

the silhouette making its way up a nearby

plate with an engraving on the stock of

hill. Joel breathed in slowly as he aimed his

his rifle, “Issued to the San Quentin

musket up at Micah, the muzzle of his gun

State Prison Guards, 1865.” The blood

enveloped half of his view of the silhouette.

on the shirt wasn’t Micah’s.

Suddenly, Micah jerked around, as if he

Joel gasped quietly as Micah slowly

felt the presence of a gunman on him. He

made his way out and started to turn

swiftly raised his hunting rifle at Joel, finger

back into a silhouette. He lunged to

on the trigger.

his tent and grabbed his old military

Off in the distance, the night sky over the

musket, the ammunition nowhere to be

infinite grassy plains was no longer silent

found. He frantically searched through

as several gunshots rang out. The echoes

his materials until he finally found the

of the shots seemed to stretch out for miles

bullets stashed underneath his bed.

before they finally dissipated, and once

As he loaded up the musket, his hands

again, everything was silent.

shook with fear and adrenaline. Once it

***

was ready, he felt that familiar pain on his neck from the branding, a reminder of what he’d done the last time he was confronted with danger. He breathed

Animal

By: Will Stutman ‘22

Pub 43

Pub Staff Chloe Brundin & Meena Padhye Editors-in-Chief Amanda Cooney Fiction Editor Madeline Mahoney Poetry Editor Nia Hodges Nonfiction Editor Iris Wilde Visual Arts Editor Will Stutman Music Editor & Layout Editor Chuck Norton Publicist Susanna Coates, Jenny Gellhorn, & Emily Salazar Faculty Advisors

44

Pub

Colophon

Pub is the student-run creative arts magazine of Springside Chestnut Hill Academy. The magazine is the final product of a yearlong activity that meets on Wednesdays during SAS, the final block of the day. September-January: the staff collects poetry, short stories, plays, essays, nonfiction writing, writing that defies caterogization, music, 2D, and 3D visual art from the Upper School student body.

As work is submitted, the staff assesses submisDesign: Adobe InDesign CC sions based on how appropriately it fits the magazine’s annual theme, quality, oritinality, and style.

Specifications: 5.5” x 8.5” trim, January: the staff finalizes itws choices for the 40 pages plus cover magazine and begins to edit. Each literary work is proofread at least twice and the writer is consulted Photography: All photography if fundamental changes areneeded. February: featured in this magazine is The staff determines the ladder for the magazine student photography by pairing visual and literary art and determining the most relevant pieces for each section of the Typography: Adobe Handwriting magazine. March: the staff begins to design the (Ernie), Bodoni 72 Oldstyle, magazine with Adobe InDesign CC. The magaAvenir Next Condensed zine is sent to the publisher and distributed to the Printer: Quaker Upper School student body and faculty within the last week of April.

Pub 45

Juniper Moscow ‘21 | John Lewis | Oil Pastel 46

Pub