Blackbird’s Eye 2026
Blackbird’s Eye
In May of 1974 the first Blackbird’s Eye was published as a culmination of a week-long program held at the School called “Poetry-in-Schools”.
Internationally acclaimed poet Thomas Heffernan was the School’s “poet-inresidence”. The students wrote a poem for him, titled “To Tom Heffernan,” from which the title Blackbird’s Eye comes.
Blackbird’s Eye Faculty Review Committee:
Julia Ambersley
Marilyn Asmussen
Beth Garrison
Maureen Morales
Danielle Worley
Blackbird’s Eye Student Review Committee:
Caitlyn Blocklinger ‘26
Harper Hairston ‘27
Newnew Hong ‘27
Siri Mannava ‘28
Ava Biehl ‘29
Cover Art:
Front cover, Sydney Davis, 10 Back cover, Teagan Loo, 3
Blackbird’s Eye
Volume LII 2026
This Year’s Theme “Community and Belonging”
Publication of Blackbird’s Eye and monetary awards for the Youngclaus Creative Writing Award Winners are funded by the William P. Youngclaus Memorial Fund. Your continued support for this project is welcome with donations to this fund.
Please email ONealGiving@onealschool.org to learn more.
CONTESTS
In celebration of Earth Day, April 22nd, the science department held a photography contest and asked students and faculty to submit photos in the following categories:
• Enjoying the Earth - Winner Woody Wilder | Page 19
• The Earth Up Close - Winner Mrs. Daily’s Third Grade Class | Page 24
• The Earth’s Landscapes and Wildlife - Winner Kim Oakley | Page 32
Contest winners were determined by Heritage Festival participants and a survey from O’Neal AP biology and biology students.
The 2026 Blackbird’s Eye is dedicated to Brooke Cutler & David Lussier
Mrs. Cutler grew up in Washington, D.C. She attended Pine Manor College in Boston, Massachusetts, and earned her BA in Child Development. Mrs. Cutler taught Pre-K4 at the Perkins School for the Blind in Boston before moving to Southern Pines. She then taught at Sandhills Children’s Center for 15 years before her arrival at The O’Neal School. For the last 15 years, Mrs. Cutler has lovingly engaged O’Neal children with the wonders of their world. From botany to blind man’s bluff, to learning the alphabet to making costumes, Mrs. Cutler has instilled a love of learning for our very youngest. Thank you, Mrs. Cutler, for your time, love, and outstanding dedication to the students of O’Neal!
Mr. Lussier joined O’Neal 11 years ago after moving from Massachusetts. With a master’s degree in music from UMass Amherst, Mr. Lu has passionately been involved in music, and theatre education and production. Mr. Lu has created an O’Neal music program focused on music literacy, and instrumental and vocal performance. As Mr. Lu describes, “Music should be a way to realize who you are and what you have to say to our world.” The students of Mr. Lu’s music classes know this for themselves, and thanks to Mr. Lu’s tutelage, have much to say, sing, and play to our world. Thank you, Mr. Lu, for sharing your passion, attention, and love of performance with the students of O’Neal!
The Bill Youngclaus Creative Writing Award
The Bill Youngclaus Creative Writing Award was established in the Spring of 2007. The award recognizes a student in each division exhibiting exemplary skills in creative writing while honoring its namesake, Bill Youngclaus. Mr. Youngclaus was an O’Neal parent, school trustee, and avid writer himself.
Written by his wife, Lisa Youngclaus, the following was recited upon presenting the first awards in 2007:
“This award was created out of the generosity of many friends and family members who chose to honor their fond memories of Bill Youngclaus by making a memorial donation to The O’Neal School.
Bill Youngclaus was a brilliant, creative, talented man who attended Yale University on a full academic scholarship and graduated with an English degree. He pursued a successful career in the advertising business and lived and worked all over the world, mastering four different languages and assimilating many cultures and ideas. But the language he loved most was the language of the written word. He read novels, plays, and poetry and he wrote fiction and poetry throughout his life.
Bill loved The O’Neal School for its high academic standards, its devoted faculty, and the loving, caring environment the School provided for his young son, Will, class of 2012. Bill served passionately on the O’Neal Board and dreamed of the School being able to fulfill all of Will’s dreams and the dreams of all the other students that call O’Neal their home.”
The poem or prose of each of the award winners is exhibited in Blackbird’s Eye
The 2026 Bill Youngclaus Creative Writing Award Winners
Ella Berry, 3 “This Community Loves You” Poem Page: 15
Ava Bozovich, 8 “In My Room” Poem Page: 20
Vivienne Rhue, 10 “A Heart of Stone” Short Story Page: 30
Nora Wolff, K
Valerie Keane-Dawes, K
AAva Daily, K
Ayomide Adeleke, 1st
Aspen Reitz, 1
Gabriel Lee, 1
Lucas Blair, 1
Thomas McSwain, 2
Westward Quest
They travel west, On this dangerous quest, Trying to survive each day, Walking all the way, Are you ready for the rest?
Leah Leisey, 2
Avera Davis, 2
Wyatt Daily, 2
Blackbird’s Eye
I love the trees, I love the flowers. I love planting seeds for the trees. Birds chirping. People working. I like Love. So does a dove. I love everything including me.
Vivienne Orentlikher, 3
My Great School
I used to live in Indiana, we had a great school, great friends but I had to move to NC, where I was actually from. WE moved on a lake and went to a new school called West End. I made friends, but not best friends and I liked my teachers, but not enough. So by the time I finished first grade, I moved to The O’Neal School for second! I Loved my teachers. I made best friends. It was awesome! I learned all the subjects and found my favorite one (writing). I started to write songs, write little books, and just write. O’Neal is how I learned to write, do math, and read more properly. By the time I reached 3rd grade, I was ready. I wanted to get good grades, keep organized, and others. I was locked in. I think school is a great learning community.
Lainey Eastman, 3
In a Community
In a community people can save your life. In a community people can find a home for you. In a community people can protect you. A community inspires you to help people like they helped you.
Anna Campbell, 3
Stella Lipson, 10
Ella Berry, 3 | Lower School Youngclaus Award Winner
James Tempone, 4
If you see trash on the ground pick it up and help around. If someone is about to drop trash tell them “Stop not on the grass!” If you’re at school and someone is goofing off tell them “Behave!” tell them “Stop!” Be a leader in the halls your teacher will tell you “Good job.” If someone is crying, ask them to be your friend maybe they will show you a magic trick where their pencil bends. It’s easy to pick up trash on the ground all you must do is bend down don’t worry if something is sticky just use a napkin and it won’t be icky. Leaders are fun, leaders are good be a brave leader, don’t hide under a hood. Be a leader and be helpful cleaning up Don’t be scared like a little pup
Grace Ames, 4
Be Responsible
If there is trash on the ground stay to make sure no trash is to be found. If someone is picking trash up off the ground, don’t say boo, help pick up too. If you miss the trash pick it up in a flash. If you find a bracelet don’t let anyone take it ask around to make sure it is found! If you want to be a leader NEVER be a cheater.
Carter Davies, 4
One Thousand Pieces, One Picture
We all are parts that create a puzzle. We all are colors that create a rainbow. We all are thoughts that create an idea. We all are opinions that make a decision. We all are pieces that make a picture.
Jack Pearson, 4
I Went to the Park
I went to the park and I saw some trash but I couldn’t pick it up because I was in a dash. But when I got back the trash turned into ash in a flash. Then I called my friend Cash and I said “lets have a bash with the trash.” Cash came back from finishing his mash but I said “ready to bash the trash thats already been ashed in a flash?” Me and Cash picked up the mashed, ashed trash in a flash.
Taylor Johnson, 4
Woody Wilder, Upper School Faculty | Earth Photography Contest Winner | Category: Enjoying the Earth
The light sets my eyes ablaze,
But the curtains shield me from its intensity.
In My Room
The raving voices of judgement make my ears ache,
But the walls shelter me from their ranting.
The atmosphere reeks of unwashed skin along with a thousand kids of waste and smoke.
My room smells only of my favorite things.
The scent of car exhaust claws at my through and fills my mouth with synthetic taste.
In my room nothing ravages my tastebuds like such.
Out there, the touch of others knocking against my shoulders ignorantly makes me go mad.
But I never feel the touch of another in here;
Never do I feel the embrace of someone who loves me;
Never do I feel the thrill of doing something others view as maniacal.;
Never do I feel the air escaping my lungs as I howl in laughter with friends.
I stare all around my bedroom.
The curtains feel like a barricade.
The walls feel like they cage me inside.
I notice the stench of dirty dishes that hoard any surface they occupy.
I can taste the dust floating in the space.
I can feel.
Feel the matted, greasy hair running down my back.
The stained and crusty clothes sticking to my skin.
The bed I confine myself to defiled with dirt and crumbs.
I finally feel the buzzing of my phone.
I finally notice the messages that flood my phone:
Voices that ask if I’m doing alright,
People that miss my presence in their lives.
I believed they didn’t care, Or was it that I wasn’t willing to reach out for assistance and comfort?
For once I stand on my feet. I trudge to the bedroom door. I walk through the hallway. I jog through the living room. I run through the kitchen. And I sprint through the front door. The light doesn’t set my eyes ablaze; It brings regained awe.
Bozovich, 8 | Middle School Youngclaus Award Winner
Ava
Sophie Tauch, 7
Abigail Schupp, 8
Community Shows
I sit alone in the winter breeze listening to the whistle of trees, wondering when we’ll meet
Again.
I see a town not far from me, so I walk through the trees.
I’m in town with people all around me.
I’m happy to be my very own community!
I have found them all for me, me in my own community.
I’m wondering when the day will end, because I don’t want to leave again.
Finally, at last the time had passed to go.
So, I leave knowing that my community will always show.
Riley Lucas, 5
Abbi Holroyd, 8
Mrs. Dailey’s 3rd Grade Class | Earth Photography Contest Winner | Category: Earth Up Close
Longing
Belong.
What does that really mean?
“Be the property of”
“Be a member or part of”
A strong word.
A bold word.
All for a sensation felt not that often.
Belong.
Sounds more like a demand. When I think go belonging, I think of family, I think of the feeling of hard work and dedication finally paying off, Finally getting to be a starter for a sport you’ve worked for your whole life.
Comfort.
What does that really mean?
“A state of physical ease and freedom from pain or constraint”
“The easing or alleviation of a person’s feelings of grief or distress”
A soft word,
A word used to make one feel safe.
Comfort.
When I think of being comfortable, My mind immediately goes to my bed, Wrapped up in a warm, fuzzy blanket, Resting my head on a fluffy pillow after a long day. A tight hug after a stressful moment, Bringing the scattered thoughts in my mind to rest.
The phrase “You belong here” is used all too often, I was recently told that, “You belong here”
I was told that in the place I felt nowhere close to belonging. I felt as if I deserved to be there but not like that was my place, I wasn’t comfortable and I definitely didn’t feel like that statement was true. We all long for the day that “You belong here” means something. When that feeling comes, Comfort and belonging existing concurrently, Keep that environment present, That feeling that you’ve been longing for.
You find it,
It is the sign that you are where you are meant to be.
Logan Slabaugh, 10
Zoe Mount, 10
Waves broke against rock, salt spray filled the air, and a creature crawled out from the deep. A maiden with jet-black hair that clung to her porcelain face, ribs jutted out, fighting to push through her taught flesh, and her torso descended into a tail of shimmering scales. The maiden clawed herself onto the granite, leaving a trail of fresh scars on the mutilated stone. Upon her perch she peered out into the ocean. Eyes of onyx shifted over waves as her upturned nose sniffed the air seeking past notes of brine for the sweet tang of life.
Being the last creature of Poseidon’s kingdom was a tragically lonely existence. Where there was once an ocean of seaweed castles, coral chateaus, and pearl palaces was now a desolate wasteland of sand. The ocean folk disappeared, and with them the art of understanding; no longer could fish play a lyre of kelp to keep the maiden merry, nor shrimp dance a waltz with her across a shipwreck at Lunar Tides. Now fish are just fish, and shrimp are only shrimp. She haunts the sea foam for the ghost of her people’s music, but all that is left are the songs she hums to herself, and a history that will wither with her decaying body.
Her dagger-like ears perk up; the pluck of a violin brushes against her soul. Breathing deeply, ahhhhh yes, she could smell beyond the morning mists drifted a ship. The jolly tune of a never-ending party echoed across the empty sea. As the notes filled the maiden’s ears, her slithering body weaved with the music. It had been so, so long since a boat visited her craggy cove. Her voice rasped through her throat and mixed with the salted air. Though by her people’s standards she had no true talent, to a mortal’s ears it was the sound of harmony, a lover’s caress.
The violin soon was joined by a playful flute, and the tones mixed together in a splendor of notes. She tilted her long neck to the sky, onyx rolled back behind eye lids, as she let the music wash over her. The ship drew closer as an aria escaped past her pointed lips. It crescendoed with the waves that crashed against the boat and rocks, daring the noises of the world to compete with the song she was spinning. She sang of an empire lost, the bubbled howls of an underworld city swept away on the day of Lunar Tides, the sorrowful sounds of children’s jubilated cheers turned to shrieks.
Entranced in the magic of the ocean’s orchestra, she did not notice the anchor being hurled into the ocean, slicing the water. She did not notice a boat filled to the brim with sailors being lowered. She did not notice when the boat docked upon her rock. She did not notice when the sailors’ instruments fell from their fingers into the sea’s salty embrace. She did not even notice when her jaw loosened, mouth yawning open, revealing rows upon rows of sharpened teeth. She did not notice the sailors sliding down her throat. She did notice the pleasing way their screams harmonized with her lament.
Her song finally dissolved into bubbles, and she peered into the water around her. A smile curled against her lips as she gazed into her reflection. Her skin smoothed against her ribs, her lips were stained a rich crimson, but most alluring of all was the onyx turned white with blue irises blooming in her new eyes. She tentatively touched a hand to the crystalline water; it rippled, but the sight remained the same.
Soon she will have had enough to turn scales to flesh and fins to feet. The maiden will at last be able to escape this watery graveyard and find a new family amongst the people of land, a new place to belong. Tears welled in her eyes and dripped down into her mouth, and for the first time the salt she tasted was not of the sea. She would not have to be lonely anymore. She was sure that land was the perfect place for her, she would dance to music all day, and she would sing all night. The maiden smiled, for she was positive that this time her new beloved people would not have to be devoured like her last.
Caitlyn Blocklinger, 12
A Heart of Stone
The familiar smell of cedar and sandalwood drifted into Pheobe’s nose as she opened her eyes. Her pupils rested on her elephant mobile, gently swinging above her head. How comforting it felt to wake up in her childhood sheets after a night of uneasy dreams. Even though Pheobe was nearly thirteen years old, she couldn’t dream of changing her whimsical and playful room she’d slept in her entire life. She turned to her carved, wooden nightstand, painted with pixies. Her baby-pink lampshade directed the soft light onto a small dish where her most prized possession sat; at least, where it was supposed to be.
On Pheobe’s ninth birthday, her grandfather gifted her a smooth, grey stone. The rhino-colored rock was encrusted with veins of quartz that sparkled ever so slightly in the sunlight. Her grandfather was easily her favorite person in the world, and she looked up to him like the daisies worshipped the sun. Pheobe treasured this beautiful present, and soon it became her most valuable object. Eventually, it became her entire voice. When her grandfather died a year later, Pheobe went silent. She completely lost herself when she lost her grandfather. Now, all that remained of her most favorite person was a tiny stone. The words would only come out if she felt the cool object in her palm. Her parents tried to play it off, as if it was just her stubborn and sentimental nature. But Pheobe knew it was much more than that. She promised herself that every word she spoke must keep the memory of her grandfather alive. She didn’t deserve to speak without grasping her stone and thinking of him first. But now, her treasured object was missing.
Pheobe searched for so long she forgot the time. She’d thrown all of the books off of her shelves, and stories of pirates and princesses scattered across the floor. She stripped her floral sheets and lifted her worn mattress but found nothing. She was so engulfed in her search that she didn’t notice her mother in the doorway.
“Breakfast has been ready for half an hour,” grumbled her mother, obviously annoyed, “What is this mess?”
My stone is missing; I need it! thought Pheobe, unable to explain herself. She tried to voice her thoughts, but the words got stuck in her throat.
“Silence? Really? I thought you were over this silly thing,” said her mother, her voice tight with irritation.
Pheobe couldn’t believe her mother. Silly thing? When was familial honor and remembrance a “silly thing”? How could her mother act so insensitively?
Frustrated, Pheobe rushed out of her bedroom, marched down her stairs, and headed off to school, slamming the door behind her. She would not talk without the stone. She couldn’t. Surely, her parents were at fault for not upholding her grandfather’s honor. Despite her frustrations, Pheobe walked with a sense of pride that morning, knowing she was the only one in her family that he would be proud of. That was the most important thing.
Contrary to her parents’ wishes, Pheobe stayed true to her pledge. For over two weeks, she made no sound except for the occasional cough or sniffle. By now, the school was sending worried letters reporting Pheobe’s lack of participation. At night, she could hear her parents whispering from the kitchen.
“We need to do something,” sighed her mom, “Do you think this is still about Eugene?”
“Eugene died almost three years ago, she’s got to be over it by now,” remarked her father.
“If it were up to me,” he continued, “We need to be stricter with her. I mean, she can’t be silent forever. Take away her phone, ground her, whatever it takes.”
“I think she needs more than that- help from a professional maybe. You know, my friend Lisa says she knows a great place...” Her mother had already made up her mind.
The next thing she knew, Pheobe sat cross-legged on a stiff couch across from an old lady with a plastic smile. The air felt too stiff, and the lingering scent of punchy disinfectant made her wrinkle her nose. The walls appeared blank and beige except for a poster that displayed Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs in a colorful pyramid. She stared at the phrase on the top of the pyramid. Self-Actualization; she wasn’t sure what that meant, but she felt certain she hadn’t achieved that.
“Hello Dear. Dear?” Pheobe glanced up, not realizing the woman was talking to her.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong, Dear?” asked the therapist, was her name Barbra? Bonnie? She couldn’t remember. Pheobe remained silent, and her eyes wandered back to the pyramid. She barely registered the next words exchanged between the therapist and her mother. She caught snippets of her mother’s worries and the therapist’s calm questions.
“Don’t worry, this kind of reaction to grief is normal, especially at her age. I would recommend biweekly speech therapy appointments with... yours truly! I’m sure I can help her talk again,” replied the therapist, too cheery about the situation.
I don’t need fixing, thought Pheobe. She was fine; she just needed her stone back. These little “speech therapy’ appointments wouldn’t do anything. Unsurprisingly, her mother already agreed and added her appointments to the calendar before Phoebe could show any sign of discontent.
The next day, Pheobe returned to school, not looking forward to another morning surrounded by pushy teachers and friends who had abandoned her. In math class, she listened to her teacher drag on about the homework answers. She stared at the clock, watching it tick by as slow as molasses.
“Can anyone tell me the answer to number 6?” babbled her teacher, bored of his own lesson.
“Anyone? How about... Pheobe? Do you know the answer?”
The whole class turned their heads, chairs squeaking as all eyes laid on Pheobe. She knew the answer; the number 127 was written in dark black ink on her worksheet. She attempted to show the number with her fingers, but all she got was a confused look from the teacher. Heat crept up on her neck as she dropped her gaze to the floor, wishing there was a deep hole she could crawl into.
“Hmm. Well, the correct answer was 127. I think we may need some more practice,” said the teacher.
Great, now everyone thinks I’m stupid, thought Pheobe, cheeks flushed with humiliation. All she could do now was count the seconds until class was over. She returned her gaze to the clock, devastated to find that only two minutes had passed. She took a deep breath, inhaling the horribly familiar smells of sweat, cheap perfume, and ... smoke? She sniffed again. Definiatley smoke. Something was burning.
She glanced around the room, seeing if anyone had noticed the smell. Everyone else seemed to not care, staring zombie-eyed at the whiteboard. Then she saw it. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see puffs of smoke drifting from the supply shelf, and the bottom drawer glowed faintly orange. Her pulse spiked. She had to do something. Say something.
Fire! There’s a fire! screamed her brain, begging her voice to warn the class. Pheobe parted her lips and opened her throat, desperately trying to speak. She squeezed her diaphragm with everything she had but failed to produce a sound. All she could think about was her stone; she couldn’t talk without her grandfather, she couldn’t! Despite her entire body begging her to scream, she couldn’t let go of the promise she made. Pheobe frantically looked around, seeing if anyone else now noticed the growing flames.
I can’t let them get hurt, she thought. If grandfather were here, he would want me to warn them. Her pride couldn’t jeopardize everyone’s safety. With everything she had, Pheobe found her voice, raw and shaking, “Guys there’s a fire!”
The class turned towards her, eyes wide. For a heartbeat, no one knew what to do; then chaos erupted. Chairs screeched, pencils dropped, and everyone rushed to the door, screaming for help. But Pheobe stood frozen, chest tight. She did it. She spoke without the stone. Amid the smoke and confusion, she almost didn’t notice the tears stinging in her eyes. Her grandfather would have been so proud.
After standing outside for hours, various police interviews, and frantic calls from her mother, Pheobe somehow made it back to her room. It was just as she left it that morning; books scattered around the floor and her mattress ajar on its frame. On her nightstand, beneath the glow of her lamp, her dish gleamed slightly. Pheobe’s breath caught. She couldn’t believe it. Her stone rested right where she always kept it, as if it had never gone missing at all.
It looked exactly the same, smooth and grey with silver lines running down the sides. But for the first time, it felt insignificant. No warmth or happiness seemed to come from the object anymore. It was just a plain, old rock. Pheobe scooped up the stone and tiptoed outside. The sun was just beginning to set, making everything seem slightly golden. The air smelled of river mud and pine, and her shoes sank as she reached the water’s edge. She stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of the river and leaning into the soft breeze. She held the stone out in front of her and let it slip through her fingers. It hit the surface with a dull plop and tumbled along the riverbed until it was out of sight.
Vivienne Rhue, 10| Upper School Youngclaus Award Winner
Jack Browning, 9
Air conditioning is commonly over done during the summer months.
Late July. Packed on a frigid bus. My teeth are chattering from my lack of clothes.
(It is summer after all..)
I’m trying to be chill in a metaphysical sense, unfortunately it only manifests literally. Giving into my own weakness, I lean into you, seeking to steal your heat for my flawed body.
You are soft and hard against me, a contradiction; but the level of comfort is foreign. It hits me particularly hard.
In the middle of the quiet crowd inhabiting the bus, sent to sleep by the engine, you’ll pass me an earbud playing an artist we both love.
The wires tangle in-between us, wrapping around my wrist as the wax from our ears contaminates each other in a filthy ceremony.
It’s nasty to think about, the way it leaves me stained on something of yours. We would rebuke the notion, but who really cares?
We’ve both done worse.
We contaminate each other when in proximity, mine is yours, yours is mine.
I’ll borrow your belt, hang your necklace around me, listen to your music, listen.
Give you my hair ties, capture you in the flash of my camera, pollute your space even when far.
We’ve been far and close; they almost seem the same.
I like to think that the tangle of your wires is what ties us close.
The last time I saw your face without the blockage of distance it’s late, my face is red, I’ve never been good at staying calm, I’ve always been a crier, turns out that’s just another thing we share.
The music playing is the same that we connected over through your headphones, What previously brought joy, now bringing nostalgia fueled tears to us both.
Months later, once we’ve been far away for a while, you’ll get emotional again.
You text me drunk as the fireworks go off in your town.
“I miss you, Ill drive east soon.”
Harper Hairston, 11
Addie Tauch, 10
Kim Oakley, MS Faculty/Staff | Earth Photography Contest Winner | Category: Landscapes and Wildlife
Sophie Itegie, 9
Sydney Davis, 10
“The
Morning Announcements”
Good morning, Wilson Wolves! Today is Thursday, April 24. Today’s lunch is sloppy joes with steamed broccoli.
The debate team will have a mandatory meeting After school in Ms. Palmer’s room today. There will be an election to determine next year’s President, vice president, and secretary.
At the track meet on Monday, Philip West Ran harder and faster and longer than he has ever run in his entire life Or ever will again. He did not place in the top fifteen and was second to last for our team; He was not even aware that Monday’s race was in fact the greatest run of his life, But still. It was. Congratulations to the team for placing fourth overall in the state.
If you have any photos you would like to submit for last-minute consideration For the yearbook, Please send them via text or email to Jill Truman. We are especially looking for pictures For the “goofy” section.
During third period biology class on Tuesday, Mrs. Yancey Briefly had to choke back tears when something a student said Reminded her of something her father had said twenty-three years ago. Tuesday Was the fourth anniversary of Mrs. Yancey’s dad’s death. Fortunately, Nobody noticed when she was choked up, and she was able To quickly get back on track talking about the Krebs cycle.
Reminder: tickets are on sale now for prom! $12 between now and Friday; $15 at the door. The theme is “2010s Nostalgia.”
Freshmen: during your study halls today, please report To the library for a presentation On the dangers of cyberbullying.
Last month, Marie Ferguson mentioned to her friend Alice that she was dating A guy over at Riverside.
Johnny Bryer, who had just been working up the nerve to ask Marie to prom, Overheard this conversation. He was sad, and he will be sad again When he thinks about that moment seventeen and a half years from now.
Today, Lauren Crasner will learn the word “tedious” from reading Macbeth in class. She will later use this word to describe Macbeth itself. She has not learned the word “irony” yet.
Next week, Mr. Garcia will grade the 1500th essay of his career. Not that anyone has been keeping track. Not even Mr. Garcia.
Seniors: graduation is coming up! Make sure you have ordered your cap and gown.
Speaking of seniors: Fiona Krasinski, Tomorrow will mark the last time you will ever speak To Bobby Dryden, who has been in at least one of your classes every year since fifth grade, But whom you only kind of know. You will ask him to pick up a pen that you’ve dropped.
Today is Thursday, April 24, at Wilson High School. It is a day
Like any other.
Dr. Kenneth Lota, US Faculty
Garrett Sartor, 11
Mom the Author is Hallucinating Birdsong Having Colors Again Can We Please Ask Her to Leave Us Alone
Once upon a time – a time not so long ago – there was a young songbird. Her whole world was song, and she grew up listening to the older birds’ song in their flocks, attempting to copy them and join their harmony. That’s all she did; copy, copy, copy, all for a place in a flock. The older birds all had a place in a flock, so why shouldn’t she have one? The young songbird grew older; her voice developing from her mimicry and received some compliments from older songbirds. Before she knew it, she was ready to leave the nest for the first time.
Her wings filled with air, carrying her across the lushly green forest thick with mist. A cool breeze danced the leaves across the forest floor as she made her way to the canopy farther above. There, she met the chorus, a throng of talented songbirds. Of course, the best of them all were Orange, Cerulean, Magenta, Jade, and Yellow. Yellow’s voice plucked and twanged through the treetops, hearty and full and sassy, while Magenta’s voice rang low and bold, full of soul. Jade’s voice was a tidal wave of emotions and clarity, her beautiful voice shining brighter than any star. Cerulean’s voice was as pure as it was ethereal, majestic like the mountains, and paired so well with Orange, who’s playful voice danced just below Cerulean’s in a heartwarming harmony. All their voices blended into the beautiful chorus, floating on top like leaves on water.
Our young songbird loved their voices and wished to be like all of them. Her favorite was Yellow, and the songbird always tried to imitate Yellow’s unique, lovely tune with minimal success. It was a tad easier to copy Cerulean; all she needed was power and her voice shone just as loud. Magenta’s voice was low, so she tried to match her as well, and poured emotion into the lowest notes she could squawk out. Magenta’s playfulness was matched in the young songbird’s attitude, and Jade – well, Jade was who she aspired to be. Jade could not be matched; her voice, her talent, was too much for the young songbird to even comprehend. All she wanted to do was make the choir more beautiful, fuller.
The copying got confusing for our young songbird, sometimes mistaking her voice for Yellow’s, or Cerulean’s. Her color became uglier, muddied, and she was unhappy. Why should her voice be so muddy, drowned out by all the other beautiful birds? She wracked her brains for a long time, and couldn’t figure it out – that is, until she stopped in her tracks, quieted her mind, and listened. Every single bird sounded unique, yes, but they were at the most beautiful all together, chirping in a harmony only nature could make. Some colors were duller but beautiful just the same, finding their place in the throng.
The songbird understood. The color of your voice didn’t matter, nor did copying. What mattered most was how she, just one songbird, could elevate the choir in her own way. The young songbird stopped copying the other choir members and instead, focused on herself. She sang loud and clear, honeyed and bright, sitting in the middle of the choir while their chirps built up a beautiful, heavenly web around her. She sang from the heart, becoming the song she helped create.
As she grew, so did her voice, and so did the choir change. Orange and Cerulean found a new flock and soared off to a new tomorrow, while Yellow’s voice, with its beautiful textures, found a seat in a different part of the forest. Even Jade’s endeavors caused her to depart, leaving just Magenta and the young songbird, who’s voice had developed into a rich indigo. The songbird’s voice, while the envy of a spare few, was not something to boast about. They heard her, but she heard something different.
The ever-changing flock, with old and new, young and old, dark and light, dull and bright voices, all singing together. Every single part of that whole had a place, a place more invaluable than any one bird; even Magenta, our songbird, and all the birds that came before. Their song was a sound more heavenly, more beautiful than any one bird’s voice. While the songbird did receive many compliments on her voice, even from Jade herself, she tried not to let it get to her head. She knew true beauty, and she was just a part of it.
Hannah Wilcox, 10
Bradley Johnson, 5
Evelyn Scogin, 7
