2016 Upper School Mainsheet Literary Magazine

Unblemished Thoughts I prefer writing to anything else because my words out of my mouth, are crackable and readable. they slither out uncontrollably and often regrettably with each syllable out seeps a repressed tremble or leaks a whisper stored deep in a crevice but ink on smooth paper, or type on the computer is smooth and defined, able to be scribbled out or revised and most importantly, (for my sake, I’d like to hope) no one can tell if you are weeping or laughing, as long as there are no tear stains across your page.

Jane Huang ’18

~1~

~2~

Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s Cover Photo, Madison Richwine............................................................................................................... Front Cover Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Severn Student, Miss Maxey’s AP Lit Class...............................................................1 This Year, Annie Mott...................................................................................................................................................6 Photo, Chad Ivey..........................................................................................................................................................11 Drawing, Christina Rivers...........................................................................................................................................12 Sneaky Is, Christina Rivers.........................................................................................................................................13 Photo, Grace Fieni.......................................................................................................................................................14 Water of Life, Cassi Whitehead.................................................................................................................................15 Photo, Cece Lasley.......................................................................................................................................................16 Imitation of Jill Ker Conway, Alanna Sokoloff ..........................................................................................................17 Drawing, Alanna Sokoloff .........................................................................................................................................18 The Things Severn Students Carry, Maddie Graw.......................................................................................................19 Photo, Maddie Angelino.............................................................................................................................................20 Cedar Island, Em Outland..........................................................................................................................................21 Photo, Lexi Schrobilgen..............................................................................................................................................23 Imitation of Jill Ker Conway, Maddie Gergar.............................................................................................................23 The Mistress Midnight, Zak Rossen............................................................................................................................24 Photo, Charlotte Kraft................................................................................................................................................25 The Harp, Jimmy Diamondidis.................................................................................................................................26 Perfection, Hannah Butler............................................................................................................................................27 Shiawase ni Nareru, Huda Turabi...............................................................................................................................30 Photo, Hannah Butler.................................................................................................................................................31 How Selfish the Sun, Jane Huang................................................................................................................................32 Photo., Julia Smith.......................................................................................................................................................33 ~3~

A Little, Sophie Taczak..............................................................................................................................................34 Oedipus Cursing His Son, Lu Birney...........................................................................................................................35 Earth’s End, Henry Creamer.....................................................................................................................................36 Sleeping in Skopelos, Abbie Manning..........................................................................................................................37 Photo, Tricia Oxford...................................................................................................................................................38 The Unusual, Abbie Hinton.......................................................................................................................................39 Hunger Is, Summer Tysor...........................................................................................................................................40 Photo, Haley Kerridge.................................................................................................................................................41 Photo, Erin Behr..........................................................................................................................................................42 Garabatos Indiferentes, Huda Turabi...........................................................................................................................43 Photo, Cece Lasley.......................................................................................................................................................44 The Farmhand’s Wife, Zak Rosebn.............................................................................................................................45 The Jump, Kobe Dellers..............................................................................................................................................47 Drawing, Cory Russell................................................................................................................................................49 Scarves, Honor Murphy..............................................................................................................................................50 Photo, Jasine Wright....................................................................................................................................................51 Photo, Erin Behr..........................................................................................................................................................52 Untitled, Kate Reed.....................................................................................................................................................53 Photo, Tess Bradshaw.................................................................................................................................................54 Photo, Grace Fieni.......................................................................................................................................................55 Rays of Sun, Henry Creamer.....................................................................................................................................55 What Do I See?, Mason Pung....................................................................................................................................56 Simplicity, Christina Lefebvre....................................................................................................................................57 Drawing, Hannah Maisano.........................................................................................................................................58 Long Contact, Jackson Emmons................................................................................................................................59 Photo, Tara Fagan........................................................................................................................................................60 Hunting on the Pontine Marsh, Annie Mott................................................................................................................65 Photo, Marcel Isper.....................................................................................................................................................68 ~4~

Dojo, Chad Ivey...........................................................................................................................................................69 Photo, Jasmine Wright.................................................................................................................................................70 Watercolor, Sophie Taczak..........................................................................................................................................71 Vivendus Est Navigatio, Zander Feidelberg..............................................................................................................72 Photo, Ryan Lashgari...................................................................................................................................................74 The Recipe for a Hairless, Cassi Whitehead................................................................................................................75 Drawing, Jane Huang..................................................................................................................................................78 Photo, Christina Lefebvre...........................................................................................................................................79 A Step Into Oblivion, James McKenney.....................................................................................................................80 Photo, Valerie Lenzer..................................................................................................................................................82 Photo, Haley Kerridge.................................................................................................................................................83 Winning Poem, Zak Rosen..........................................................................................................................................84

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~6~

Ayana Gordon ’16

~7~

Abbie Manning ’16 ~8~

Where I’m From I am from mass, the place where Catholics worship.

I am from the charcoal that my father so graciously uses to cook with.

(Dark, burning we just knew we were in for something enticing.)

I am from the house on the corner, the shady one, where the snow was always last to melt.

I am from sweat and tears, from basketballs and planes.

I’m from lawyers and teachers and agent mommy, from working overnight and missing my games.

I’m from strength with motivation to achieve fortune.

I’m from Pop Pop and Honey, crabs and old bay.

From the simulated sword my grandfather teased me with the sweet aroma of my grandmother’s food and her wise words.

On the kitchen table was a remembrance of how to live The Bible and all of the scriptures within.

This is where I’m from that will shape my life forever.

Maya Lesley Harris ’16

~9~

Molly Coyle ’16

~10~

Craving Nature “We are always making it into a world And never letting it be nothing: the pure, the unconstructed, which we breathe and endlessly know, and need not crave” -Rilke I read the words on the sign: The Smithsonian Environmental Research Center. Fond summer memories flood into my mind: the purse seining, the forest exploring, and, of course, the hillside frolicking.

Nostalgic motifs of the nature and beauty remind me of my purpose. I have come here to think. When in need, I seek to find some resolution in nature; my sophisticated thoughts seem to give me a sense of accomplishment. My craving for nature roots deep in my mind, and I must have some sort of literary release. The entrance to the center sits before me, inviting.

As I roll down the gravel road, the pebbles crack and pop. The crackling sound fills my ears, easing my excitement of what is to come. The bar is already lifted, and in the small guard house sits a tired policeman, snoozing with his feet above his head. Trees line both sides of the road, and I anticipate the opening I remember so vividly.

The thick forest clears into an empty, large field, and in the far distance a small sliver of the Chesapeake Bay peeks past the grassy hills. The colors of the scene are far from saturated. The overcast sky rids the setting of color, and the tall grass is a faded yellow. Gray shades of leaves and foliage occupy my peripheral vision, and a blur of black birds circle above. Yet all visuals marginalize as the sweeping wind develops from the sky’s gray void. The wind flowing through my windows abruptly blows in my face, constantly changing direction and power. I grin with excitement because the uncontrollable wind is exactly what I had wished for- nature to throw itself on to me, in search of the conclusion it alone cannot find.

Now, consumed by the inspiration of nature and the wind, I expect to have deep thoughts which analyze the greater purpose of nature. I am anxious for these thoughts to flow into my mind, but when I try, they do not arrive. The desire to think and grow as a person floods my every bone, but when I try to think, my mind goes blank and I am enveloped by the wind. Before, my thoughts had come so effortlessly.

Now, as I force the process, my pathetic yearnings are evident. I am desperate for contemplation to return to me, and for my comforting resolutions in nature to satisfy my hunger for sophisticated thought. I park my car and step out to look at the field beside me.

The wind has a powerful effect on the field. With the cloudy sky and tall grass it blows away all concerns. There is no escaping the tenacious breeze. Tranquility is far from the fluctuating gusts of wind, its pumping so violent and unforgiving. Yet, somewhere within the swooshes and swirls lies comfort, and like the rumble of shoes in a washing machine, it oddly soothes those stuck in its presence.

The flimsy grass reacts immediately to the strong wind. It conforms to its every direction: first left, right, forward, then backward. The grass moves in unison; the wind’s constant change of direction is dramatized by the bold movements within the field.

With all of its comforting beauty, the scene still does not bestow upon me any form of thought.

Exasperated, I throw my hands up into the air, looking at the gray, yet vivid sky. As the wind pulls and tugs at my hair, I suddenly become content. I come to terms with the idea that I will not always have some wise ~11~

conclusion. I think of the many times I will experience thought-provoking solitude, and how it’s ok not to reach some grand conclusion right now; I always have later. Before, I was sad that I had no deep thoughts or observations, but now, I am virtuous in my lack of resolution. So many people try so hard to clear their mind of stresses and worries. I have a mindset most people dream of, and I should take advantage of such peace. I am glad that at this point in my life I have no deep thoughts. I can relax in the simple beauty of not thinking.

I realize it is the experience of thought-provoking beauty that has value, not the actual occurrence of thought.

Below me, a white flower sits with its petals hugged tightly, having yet to blossom. I think to myself how people often are incapable of seeing things for what they are. People look upon nature and see the past, present, and future, and now for the first time I am doing otherwise. I do not see the flower as a seed or as a dead reminder of previous beauty. I see the flower suspended in timelessness, not bloomed, not dead, just adhered to the very moment in which it exists.

I am empty. The fluctuating wind vibrates against my hollow composure. I take a deep breath, which feels fresh beyond measure. I taste of the purity exists in the breeze. My time is up, and I must return home. Though I do not want to leave, I feel accomplished. I take a last whiff and smell the vegetation. I walk to my car door not wanting to disturb the inherent isolation of the beautiful setting. I say my goodbye, for I am grateful for what it has taught me. I am glad I have no conclusions, sometimes all I need is the miraculous mystery of nature.

I approach the exit of the field with drama at my back. Strong vibrations pass through my car, and the intensity of the wind increases violently, indicating a transformation. I sense the action behind me, magnificently swirling and frolicking in the absence of its observer.

Paul Wyrough ’17

~12~

Alanna Sokoloff ’16

~13~

The Power of Music They tell me my music is too loud, I tell them music flows through my veins.

Its loudness reverberates through my skull.

The notes exude from my pores, Pushing my soul to the surface, Completely visible to the world, Heart worn on my sleeve.

I feel my spirit throbbing in my chest, Itching to burst through its skeletal seams, I close my eyes and let its melodic tones consume me.

I cannot be confined.

Nina Page ’17

~14~

Haley Kerridge ’17

~15~

Forgotten Memories

The waves crash harshly upon the sandy shore with a sudden force of anger. The ocean carries away all the worries of the world with its currents. It carries the hopeless further into oblivion and washes away people’s forgotten dreams. It brings back forgotten memories. The ocean’s crashing waves bring about a familiar sound that never leave’s my mind, and is a reminder of what was and what never will be again.

Ashey Loprete ’17

Inspired by the writing of Jill Kerr Conway in The Road from Coorain.

~16~

Sophie Taczak ’17

~17~

Ostracized

Devon stood in the middle of a circle of rowdy boys at his middle school. All the other boys were all yelling, kicking, and throwing things at him. The blue circle expanded and grew until it turned to green and reached Devon. It made him scream in a crazed rage that he was no longer in control of. Devon flared his limbs and spit at his enemies and yelled at the top of his lungs until there was no one left around him in the schoolyard. A teacher approached him and suggested that maybe he should go home. Devon was fine with this, his parents were called, and twenty minutes later he sat in his backyard. When he had the choice, Devon would always choose to be outside. Being indoors made him anxious and uncomfortable, like a trapped feeling. When he was outside, Devon felt free and he could see all the breathing. Devon did not like when his surroundings were still. He could see the breath of all living things; the trees softly bulged out and sunk in from their trunks with each breath of sun that they took. The leaves turned and waved to respire, the grasses did the same.

Devon’s mom approached him as he was observing the phenomenal motion of the tree. Devon did not even have to look to see that she was coming; he felt her presence and saw her aura well before her physical self appeared. Devon had so much love for his mother that the red poured off of her like an overflowing glass of v8. A concentrated, blood red color touched her skin and faded to a candy apple red about a half foot away from his mother, then soft pink to white at the very edges of her aura. He greeted her with a hug, but no words; Devon rarely spoke. Devon’s mother began to speak of his outburst at school today, which he did not seem to understand the importance of. She understood that it was not his fault, that the other boys had been bullying him, but she felt that a therapist would certainly do her boy some good.

Devon’s mother, or anyone for that matter, had absolutely no idea of what transpired in Devon’s mind. He never discussed the auras he saw with anyone, no one understood why he rarely talked, why he craved the outdoors, and why he reacted so strongly to certain people and things. It was because he saw the world differently, but how was he to know that this was an abnormal perception? It was all he knew, therefore it was normal to him.

The following Wednesday, Devon had his first appointment with his new therapist, Dr. Carla Webber. Dr. Webber had a kind face and smelled sweet, Devon liked her; she had a warm aura. Not as powerful as his mother’s warmth, but he already felt close to her. The doctor asked Devon why he had lashed out at the boys at his school, expecting to hear something along the lines of “they were being mean to me”.

Instead, Devon simply said, “There was too much blue”.

“Excuse me?”, Dr. Webber asked, not understanding what Devon had just told her.

“I said, there was too much blue. It was going to touch me”, Devon repeated.

“What does this mean, Devon? What is the blue?” Dr. Webber tried to clarify.

“The blue is negative. I see it around bad things, things I don’t like. Things that weren’t made by the Earth or people who are going to hurt me. The blue is bad, it is cold. When it gets more intense, it gets green. When it gets green I can’t control myself, I get angry and upset”, Devon said.

“Is there a positive too? I mean, are there different colors for good things?” The doctor asked, intrigued by the young boy with such a complex mind.

“Oh, yes of course. Red is good, it is warm. The warm colors don’t make me do things, they just make me feel good. You have red, that means I trust you, otherwise you bet sure as hell I wouldn’t be telling you a single ~18~

thing right now”, Devon said.

“Do these colors get in the way of things you’re trying to do?” Dr. Webber inquired.

Almost instantly, the vivid memory of the last time the green appeared flashed before Devon’s eyes.

“The other morning, I woke up and mom was still asleep. I was really hungry so I walked down to the kitchen and decided to make some toast for myself. I got a piece of bread out of the cupboard, turned around, and stepped towards the toaster. It was as if the toaster glared right back at me. The cold metal surface was repulsive and the green rays were going to engulf me. Panicking, I curled up in a ball on the floor and screamed to wake up my mother. The feeling was so intense that I vomited,” Devon recounted.

The therapist was very concerned. How could an inanimate object have such a profound emotional effect on this child? What about the object was so offensive?

“Do you have these ‘feelings’ towards other inanimate objects?” The doctor inquired.

“Of course, what don’t you understand lady? Everything has an aura, just some are weak and some are strong. Living things never make me feel bad though; living things are always warm”, the boy explained, as if all of this was perfectly normal and she was ridiculous for even asking.

The session ended and Devon’s mother took him home where he sat beneath his favorite tree for a few hours until he was called to dinner. After dinner Devon completed his homework beneath the tree and went to bed. The next day began as any other day; Devon got dressed and went to the bus stop, got on his bus, and went to school. However, Devon was sent home early once again. Events had transpired a little differently this time. Devon was introduced to a new boy, and it was apparent that he was not fond of this boy. He reacted violently, throwing school supplies and trying to hit the boy. It was so bad that two teachers had to work together to restrain Devon. His parents brought him to the therapist, but before he got to see Carla this time, his parents spoke with her. He held his breath in order to hear what was being discussed. He heard his name, he heard expelled, and he heard word of a special needs school. Immediately, blue spilled into his eyes and faded to a green fury that engulfed the whole room as if water were rushing in through all of the windows. Devon was drowning in the green, he had to run. He took off and ran as fast as he could. Devon ran and ran until it was night and he could no longer recognize his surroundings. He had no money, no coat, no blankets, and no cell phone. Devon lay down in the grassy meadow he had stopped in and closed his eyes.

When Devon awoke he was greeted by a soft nudge from the wind. The grasses caressed him and slowly released their grasp as he rose from the ground. Devon felt free, the warmth of his surroundings twirled around him and filled him with the happiest sensation imaginable. He knew he would never return home now. If only he could find others who just wanted to be free as well. Devon trekked down his path, passing the trees and greeting each new one with the same loving familiarity; they encouraged him to continue. Although there were no humans around him, Devon felt less alone than he ever had before; there was no one and nothing to make him feel blue.

Two days into his journey, Devon was hungry and without tools for hunting. Conveniently, he stumbled upon a couple. Along the rocky coast where he had been walking, Devon encountered first an old van. He peered inside the windows to find all the necessities of life, e.g. a small fridge, a microwave, a bed. Devon crouched behind the van, expecting his happy, solitary streak to be broken upon meeting the inhabitants of the van. Instead, the opposite occurred. When the couple living in the van discovered Devon, they introduced themselves and Devon felt as if he had met them long ago. Encompassed in their warm aura, Devon had conversations with the two for hours. The couple asked where he slept, he said wherever the day placed him. The two welcomed him into their lives and promised to care for him as if he were their ~19~

own.

This was not what Devon wanted, however. The boy was intent on living alone, no matter how wonderful these people were. He played along with the situation, let them think he would live with them, but in reality he was studying them. Devon wanted to know how the two survived in this fashion, living without jobs and traveling from place to place. The couple would hunt for their food, and Devon learned this skill. A few weeks went by, and Devon was making significant contributions to the group’s food supply. He felt that this meant he was ready to go off on his own. Devon told the couple of his plan to build shelter in the woods and hunt for his own food, and he explained that he would have to do this alone.

“But Devon, you are so young! You can’t go off on your own just yet, we have so much more to show you and I would be concerned for your safety”, the wife pleaded.

But Devon’s mind was made, he would leave that night. The couple gave him one of their guns and wrote up a book listing all the things they had discussed.

“Be safe son, a mind like yours is hard to come by. Don’t waste it”, the husband said and patted Devon on the shoulder.

Off he walked, into the wilderness and away from the societal blues.

Lu Birney ’16

~20~

Ayana Gordon ’16

~21~

Idolatry Feed me your body and your blood From goblets full of foul wine.

I cut your visage from wax wood And scribble your name in the margins of my buckskinned bible, And stand buck-naked neath the moon and howl In heavenly ecstasy; Give me blessings as I pray to thee.

No hands ever made a man so virtuous And no lips ever sang such surefire prophecy.

Hell hath no fury as your eyes And no virgin’s thighs Could ever produce such something so holy.

You are my divinity, my deity, my almighty; I shall sing you Hail Marys Not for marriage But so you may bless my destiny With your presence.

Oh please accept my sincere idolatry.

Hell hath no fury as your eyes As they glare down upon me, From a distance they make me sunburned As if I’ve been walking through death valley, And though I may walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil Because I can feel you here with me.

I am a flagellant That wields the whip in my hands And feels your presence in my fingers.

Bleed me of my sins so that all that is left Is your memory and your blessingBless me and tear down false gods and ignorant idols So all that is left is my worship at your feet.

Zachary Rosen ’16 ~22~

Annie Mott ’16

~23~

Rachel Sindler ’17

~24~

Daddy’s little somebody is a schizophrenic, psychopathic harpy disturbed in the back of a truck car restaurant elevator sleeping soundly beneath an endless moon.

Whose anyone to wail in silent corners, to cry in burned out attics— furnace heat-cooking the teeth of a silent partner’s double bill of health.

Silent sleep in a parked car, in Henry’s crying garage

a radio laughing and bubbling quietly from the work bench, how I longed to laugh again on this weekend’s

TOP 40 HITS

Smashes to smash your eardrums!

How calmly she wades into the dark blue her skirt floating on the surface

and rising off her head as she is completely submerged.

I am so quiet; I am so _______ so. She is quiet beneath the river.

Parker Rouse ’16

~25~

Sophie Connors ’18

~26~

The Two-Headed Monster A pair of customers walked in the door. Please let them go away, I thought to myself. I had been quietly enjoying my calm game of solitaire on my phone, and now they had come and disturbed it. What if they were robbers? I wondered. Or worse, murderers? My heart started pounding, my long, spindly fingers fidgeting as the customers split up, one walking to the left wall where the drugs were and the other to the right where the refrigerated drinks were. I started breathing deeper and longer, just as my counselor said I should.

“Be calm,” he had said, “and count your breaths.” I started counting: 1, 2, 3, 4. I stopped there, my heart skipping a beat and my breath catching; the customers were walking towards me now! I swiveled my head looking for an escape route; I was trapped. The only way out was towards them. Had they seen me yet? Could I hide behind this counter if I needed to? It was short, and seemed pretty flimsy. I shrank back until my back hit the wall of cigarettes behind me. They had seen me. Oh no…

• • • Two men with confident bearings approached me. One of them held an Arizona Iced Tea and a bag of Doritos, the other had a box of Tylenol. They were both wearing dark sweatpants, a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, and a baseball cap pulled low over their faces. Blood started rushing in my veins as my heart rate accelerated. My hands clenched and I had to force them open to appear calm and welcoming. I eyed the counter; it was definitely short enough to jump over if I needed to get at them quickly. I walked up to the cash register and checked to make sure that my baseball bat was still tucked under the counter. Be calm, I told myself. Remembering my counselor’s advice, I started counting my breaths. There was no reason that either of these customers was out of the ordinary. 1, 2, 3, 4. They reached the counter.

“Hi! How may I help you today?” I asked as cheerfully as I could.

“Just these please.” They placed the items down on the counter, I looked down to start scanning them. Boop toned the register.

“Oh, and this too,” one of them added. He placed a Snickers down on the counter.

“And all the money in that register there,” the other said. I paused in disbelief as his words percolated through my mind. I glanced up and saw what looked like a gun, pointed at me, under one of the men’s sweatshirts.

My heart pounded in a surge of adrenaline and everything turned red as blood flooded my body. I clenched my fists and raised them. The man with the gun took a step back, out of the range of my fists, and gestured at me with the gun…

• • • There, not five feet away, stood a man with a gun, aimed at me.

“AH!” I yelped in a raspy voice, ducking down behind my small, flimsy counter. I curled into a small ball tucking myself as close as I could to the counter to get out of sight and danger from that awful gun. I started whimpering and rocking back and forth, back and forth, scared out of my mind of that gun. All rational parts of my mind had shut down and I was just in that terrified animal part of my mind. The men whispered to each other for a few moments, and then the one with the gun spoke.

“Stand up slowly.” I couldn’t even respond; I was so petrified. “I said, stand up slowly, and you won’t get hurt.”

I gently uncurled myself and stood up shakily. I saw that scary lump under the man’s sweatshirt and turned away from it, looking around panicked.

“Now open up the register,” he continued. I remained motionless. The only way out was past the two men.

Could I make it? I saw the gun again, out of the corner of my eye and decided I could. I dove over the ~27~

counter, directly between the two – feeling my foot hit one of them – rolled, and stood up running. I took one step and went down screaming in pain. Remembering the gun, I scrabbled along the ground, dragging myself quickly behind an aisle of chips for cover. I looked down at my foot and saw that it was twisted around at an unnatural angle; it was broken. The panic started rising up in me again, and I was totally consumed in it. The counselor’s words came back to me, but I was too lost in my frenzy to be able to count, let alone control my breathing. My heart pounded against my chest as I curled into a fetal position again, this time clutching my foot in pain…

• • • My fists clenched in rage, blood inundated my body numbing me to pain and feeling; I was not going to stand for this, they had humiliated me enough. I quieted my breathing so that I could hear the robbers whisper to each other.

“What is wrong with this guy?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just take the money and run.”

“I’m not taking the whole register, that’ll just lead the cops right to us. No, we need to get it open.”

“Ugh, fine. Look, you go around left and I’ll go right at this aisle and we’ll trap him between us, okay? He broke his foot so he can’t have gotten far.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

I didn’t know which one, or if both, would have the gun, so I decided to crawl down the aisle, away from where I had entered. I crouched in a coiled ball, tensely waiting for the man to walk around the corner. He must have been very confident because he strode around quickly and turned into the aisle without even seeing me. I lunged off my good foot, slamming into his waist with the full force of my body, easily tackling and knocking the wind out of him. His partner came around the other corner just then.

“Get off him or I’ll shoot!” he yelled. Knowing that he wouldn’t with his partner in the line of fire as well, I ignored him, landing haymakers on the downed man’s head as he lay semi-defenseless. The man with the gun cursed under his breath and started running at me. I turned to face him as he got nearer, crouched and lunged at him, trying for the same tactic. This guy, however, saw me leap, and sidestepped easily, leaving me sprawling helplessly past him. I spun around trying to recover quickly. As I looked up at him, I saw his fist rise up and knew there was no way to avoid it…

• • • My face exploded with pain. I crumpled to the ground in utter shock. How had I ended up like this? This was all of my worst fears coming true right now. The man reached down to grab me; using a last quick spurt of energy, I rolled out of the way and sort of jerkily bear-crawled rapidly away into an adjacent aisle before he could attack me again. My face was so awash with pain that I hardly felt the pain in my foot anymore.

Over in the other aisle, I could hear the gun-wielder bringing his partner to. My mind raced again. How do I get out? How had I ended up here? Where should I go? How do I stay alive? How do I get out? These questions and more swirled around in my mind, confusing me more than focusing me and setting me into more and more of a despairing, hopeless spin as I realized how hopeless my situation was. In my effort to figure out the answer to these questions, I didn’t notice the robbers’ approach until it was too late. They grabbed me, hauled me up, walked me over to the counter, and slammed me on it face down. I had never felt such pain in my life; I couldn’t even make a noise it hurt so badly. They patted me down, taking my wallet and phone, but not finding the key to the register because it wasn’t on me, it was on a hook under the counter. ~28~

“Where’s the key?” one of them yelled in my face. I tried to whimper that it was under the counter, but my voice was too muffled. The two of them grabbed me again and threw me backwards against an aisle ending. I sat down hard – painfully jarring my whole body – unable to break my fall.

“Where’s the key?” he yelled at me again.

“Under the counter,” I managed to eke out through my swelling face and shame. How had I become so helpless, unable to defend my store, myself even?! I sat there stewing in defeat as they searched under the counter for the key…

• • • The two robbers opened up the cash register and started taking out every scrap of money and stuffing it into a sac one of them pulled out. My blood reached a rolling boil one more time as I stared at them taking my money. I sat there, mentally riling myself up to a fever pitch so that as they walked out, finally satisfied with all the money they had, I dove out under their feet, tripping them over each other and causing them to come crashing to the ground. I went after the one with the gun first, pinning his arms away from his body. I started feeling his stomach and pockets looking for the gun, and there was nothing there! The entire time he had been faking it! I got even more pissed, and realizing I was now in a dogfight 2-v-1, backed away a second. The second robber tried to stagger to his feet, still clutching the money. I gave a feral snarl and launched myself at him. He fell, knocking the wind out of him again, and cracked his head on the cement; he went out cold.

The “gunman” jumped on my back and grabbed my head in his hands. Before he could do anything with his advantage, I pulled his hands off me and rolled over underneath of him. I then reached up, grabbed his face, and pulling it towards me, slammed my forehead into his nose. His nose broke open and he howled in pain, jerking backwards. I pushed him off of me, rolling myself on top of him, and started whaling on his face with my fists. He couldn’t keep defending himself, and still I kept socking him in the face. I continued until I collapsed in exhaustion…

• • • I woke up. I was strapped to a gurney being wheeled through a pristinely white corridor by three jet-black men in the whitest suits I had ever seen; one of them was holding a thermometer, and another, a large jar of Vaseline.

Stephen Duncan ’16

~29~

Katie Luscher ’17

~30~

Annie Mott ’16

~31~

A man stood Anxiety mounted in his heart.

He was a great man, a noble warrior.

Shaken and frightened, he fell and fell until he began to fear he would never stop falling When all seemed ready he let himself go He pressed the trigger.

The fear had vanished.

Olivia Burchfield ’16

~32~

Cece Lasley ’16 ~33~

Ink Stains The ink has no shape; The ink will stain strong; Black as a cape A small China cup; White on the surface, Until the sun chooses to come up A blue egg in a nest; The promise of life; Life that cracks all the rest A child peels open a smile; Gives a bit of light, Yet masks it for a while The woman sings in the shower, But slips in joy—falls; The ink does not cower The ink is blind; The ink shoots arrows to kill; Black beauty, Cupid, for it is kind Wipe your face, It’s dripping black; Leave no trace Wipe your heart, It’s dripping black; Black from the start Jimmy Diamondidis ’18

~34~

Jimmy Diamondidis ’18 ~35~

The Stranger

In the cafe, the day is like any other. Bright fluorescent lights shine like false suns over the patrons.

Small, dark, wooden tables sprout from the black and white tile flooring like mushrooms on a chessboard.

Impressionist paintings and minimalist sculptures take their place on a few skeletal bookshelves, lending some decoration to the wide, barren room. Windows closed to the dismal drizzle outside complete the entire scene artfully.

The cafe is a storm of activity, more chaotic than the gale outside. Behind a mint green counter, staff wearing beige aprons run to and fro collecting money and meals and impatient commands. People are everywhere. A gaggle of college students sit on an old ripped couch in a corner, textbooks open and flashcards at the ready. A couple in their thirties wear ripped jeans and t-shirts for obscure bands, feeding each other bites of salad in-between bouts of laughter. A mother tries to feed her petulant son tomato soup that stains his starched white church shirt; it would need to be bleached again. Many more less interesting souls litter the area, eating their croissants and checking their emails and drinking their coffee that gives the air a bitter smell.

Sitting alone in the corner, drinking a raspberry smoothy, is a person. If one was to ask the various patrons in the cafe what this person looks like, the questioner would receive a variety of responses. The college students see, amongst themselves, a motorcycle enthusiast wrapped in leather, a pregnant black woman wearing a hijab, a very pale man wearing large glasses, and an old asian man wearing a suit. The couple see a tan man in military gear and a teenage girl wearing a red dress. The woman feeding her child sees a surfer in board shorts and her son sees, of all things, a mime.

The stranger who is at the same time one and many people draws little attention; even those patrons who think the stranger looks quite unusual fail to remember or to focus on them. The stranger is here for one person in particular, and to that person the stranger appears in a very particular form.

The stranger is a little blond girl with pigtails and a pale blue dress. She has matching slippers and a cheap pearl necklace around her neck. This little girl keeps her eyes fixed on one single patron.

The patron is an old woman at a small table by the counter. She has a single cup of coffee untouched in front of her hands. She sits alone, and has the look of an individual who has sat alone at various places for a very long time. She wears a long gray trench coat even though the air is warm inside the cafe. Her long gray hair is frizzy and her long gray nails are broken. She is not happy. She does not remember the last time she was happy.

The little girl who is also many other people stands up from her seat, leaving the finished cup on the table. She waltzes over with a strange look of purpose for someone as young as she appears. In less than five seconds, she is at the table with the woman, sitting across from her. The woman barely acknowledges the child and instead stares longingly into the swirling abyss of the coffee cup. They sit in silence for a moment before the girl speaks.

“Hello young lady.”

The old woman peers up, the comment catching her attention. “I haven’t been young in a very long time.”

“Compared to me, you’re barely more than an infant.”

The old woman is silent for a moment. In most situations, she would have laughed with scorn at ~36~

someone who said such a preposterous statement. But there was something about the little girl sitting before her that made her stop. Her eyes were sad and so very, very old. Older and deeper and sadder than any the old woman had ever seen in her many, many years.

The girl smiles with tenderness and takes the old woman’s hands in her own. “It is time my dear.

Time to go.”

“Yes.” The old woman feels warm on the inside, and a peace she hasn’t felt in years flows through her.

“Are you frightened?” the young girl, who is one and many but who is so far from young, asks the woman who looks so old.

“I have been for years. But not now. I’m ready. I’m not afraid anymore,” the old woman whispers, tears of joy leaking down her cheeks.

Together, the pair stand up and walk away. The doors open outwards into glorious sunshine. Birds sing and butterflies flutter and their is only joy and light. The doors shut behind them and the storm is back again. It is several minutes before anyone checks on the old woman in a gray trench coat alone at her table.

She looks to be in a deep sleep, and no one wishes to disturb her. There is a smile on her face.

Zachary Rosen ’16

~37~

Memory Project Note

~38~

Summer Doss ’16

As I sit in my boat that is life I think back to the easier times of childhood youth where my guardian angel was there to guide me. Back then I could see what was on the horizon because of those who had traveled before me. I saw the older youth going farther down the river than me and then they would disappear sometimes seeing what was in front of them and calling out for help. Now I can see what they were afraid of. They had been abandoned just as I am, and became frightened by what they were expected to do by themselves when just a little earlier they were being guided. I did not appreciate what I had with the simplicity of youth. The river was calm and the trees were fruitful, I did not need to worry about where I was going or how long it would take. In looking back on what I had, I realize how easy everything was, I lacked the ability to think for the future and prepare for what was to come so I sat back and relaxed. I remember how the tree’s branches would stretch out over the river, which really was a slow moving creek now that I think of it. I could reach out and grab a piece of succulent fruit off the tree when I became hungry and when I was thirsty I could bend down over my boat and have a drink of the crystal clear water. Now as I sit on the doorstep of my impending fate I wish I had known what was coming.

Darby Nelligan ’17

~39~

Lillie Kontor ’17

~40~

The flow of the river carves new lines in the embankment. With the rise of the water and the change of the tides it repeatedly erases what once was. There is no constant. The river rushes through the valley, and the torrents it releases whip along the shore with complete disregard. In the never-ending process of erosion the river consumes the earth, and like all of nature’s other uncontrollable forces man has no hope of reigning in its power.

Henry Reed ’17

Inspired by what painting?

~41~

Haley Kerridge ’17

~42~

A Cruel Twist

I grew up in a world untouched by civilization. A land where only nature lies. A land we refer to as the Realm. A vast number of wild creatures reside here in this land desolate of humans for a thousand years. Legend tells that humans were driven out of this land in the early years by a powerful spirit. It tells that the spirit was angered by the humans violence and carelessness for the other creatures in the Realm. The spirit decided that it was necessary for the sake of the Realm to remove all the humans for a thousand years. Humans are abundant in the lands outside, but are too afraid to enter the Realm at the risk of being tortured by the spirit. We are now just one month from the presumed reopening of the Realm to humans, as this will be the thousand year anniversary of the removal of the humans from our Realm. It is presumed that once a thousand years pass, humans will be allowed to reenter the Realm safely without fears of an attack by the spirit.

My name is Paris. Not to be mistaken with the Paris of ancient Greece, I am nothing that you would understand. I am an otherworldly being. Although human in appearance, I am no human at all. With the features of a human man, I am often mistaken for one by creatures in the realm. I was sent from another world to the Realm to assist in the the reintroduction of humans. Essentially I am a delegate for the Realm. My entire existence has been for this coming moment.

The Realm is a truly beautiful land. With mountains that touch the sky and valleys that seem descend below the Realm’s core, it really is a sight to behold. Huge plateaus overlook vast plains that appear blanketed in a lush green haze. Massive clouds oversee the land. Moist caverns nestle themselves all throughout the land. Mystical waterfalls cleanse the land. All features work in unison to support the majestic Realm. Wildlife runs abound, untouched by the plague that is man. A shockingly large number of goats roam the plain at all times. All is quiet once the sun goes down except for the smooth rustling of leaves and the quiet purr of big cats in the distance. Serenity and tranquility. The Realm is all that is good. ***

“Who are you?” the pale woman, whose name I learned was Aloe, asked.

“I am Paris. I am here to introduce and warn you about our Realm,” I told her.

The three sisters and winged cherubic creature looked at each other, and they appeared to almost telepathically communicate. These looks gave me the uneasy feeling of being an outsider. Do we really want humans disrupting the serenity of the Realm? Whatever, I thought. Not my problem.

“It’s so green!” remarked Claudia, the seemingly dim-witted third sister, who spent a good bit of the tour rubbing her feet, and complaining about the walk. It was quite refreshing to hear a positive comment come out of her mouth for once.

“I can’t believe how clean it is!” said Zora, the presumed leader of the quartet.

I decided to lead the crew on a tour through the forest, first, and planned on taking them down the plateau to the plains and rivers, to end our tour. Once, we reached the plateau, I took a seat on a rock, and pulled the crew aside, offering them a seat as well.

“So what do you think of the Realm?” I asked.

“It’s very clean. Much different from what we’re used to,” squeaked the tiny cherubic creature.

I thought about it for a moment, and realized that I had never left the Realm in my entire life.

All I knew about the outside world was hearsay from the other creatures. I had no idea what life was like ~43~

for the humans. These thoughts all of the sudden made me very curious about life for these people. Was it as carefree as mine? Is it as violent as the legends say? I had no idea, and I had to find out.

After an embarrassingly long pause in the conversation due to my deep introspection and long train of thought, I finally got to asking some questions about human life.

“Wait, you said that this cleanliness of the Realm is unlike what you folks are used to. How can that be so?” I inquired.

“Are you kidding? Our world is a mess. You know that,” said Zora, both aggressively, but also with a hint of sadness.

“No, ma’am. I do not know anything about your world. I have never left the Realm, here. I was born, well, created, here. I’ve never been anywhere other than here. Oh, except for my other world, but you wouldn’t understand any of that,” said I.

“Okay,” said Zora, obviously confused, “Well, if you really don’t know what’s going on, I’ll explain.

The world is in shambles right now. There have been many nuclear wars over the years, and almost all of the Earth’s species are now extinct. Temperatures exceed 150 degrees Fahrenheit in some places, and temperatures aren’t below 85 anywhere on the planet. How do you not know any of this?”

“I-I’m not sure. I’ve never been told any of this,” said I.

“Wait, but... you know where you are, right?” questioned Aloe, in a disturbingly nervous tone.

“Ah, yes, of course. This is the Realm. I was sent here from another world to welcome you humans back here,” I told her, now feeling a certain uneasiness that came from the eerie glances exchanged between the four of them.

After a long pause without response from any of the humans, I went on to explain the legends about the spirit, to further support my now possibly unsure claim as to where I am given the looks on the humans faces.

“Oh, God,” said Claudia to the others.

“He doesn’t know,” mumbled the cherub, who now peculiarly looked much more like a short old man than a cherub come to think of it.

“Subject 17 seems to be exhibiting signs of dementia,” whispered Zora into some sort of metal contraption.

“Wait, what?” I exclaimed now very scared and confused. Were they talking about me? Am I Subject 17?

“All I am authorized to tell, sir, is that you are a part of our NASA Terraform Project,” said a now very serious and professional Zora, “You are on Earth’s moon, and the year is 3015. Your previous memory was wiped, and replaced in order to test how one can survive on a terraformed world. Our planet is a wreck, and this project was created to assist us in creating a new hospitable planet.”

“You are simply a little pet project,” said Zora, now very coldly, “but know that you’ve shown signs of dementia you will no longer be needed.”

“Goodbye Subject 17” cackled the cherubic-looking old man.

My life was a lie.

Pat Schaeffer ’17

~44~

Summer Doss ’16

~45~

Sophie Taczak ’17

~46~

13 Card Dead Man Stack ‘Em A storm was cooking on that dark, moonless night. The fog hung low around the stables and the horses whinnied nervously in their stalls.

The town was black—black as tar. The tumbleweed rolled gently down Main Street past the barber’s, the butcher’s, the tanner’s and the coffin-maker’s until it stopped in the one patch of light on that cold night.

The light pouring out of Bessie’s saloon.

Inside, the bar was hopping. Drinks were being poured left and right. Ladies of ill repute wandered from man to man trying to entice one to come upstairs for a good time. The cowboys had knives hidden in their boots, pistols in their belts. It smelled like blood, piss and dirt, and the spittoon was overflowing with brown tobacco spit. It was just like any other night.

I stood off in the corner nursing my rye and watching how the night unfolded. I noticed there was one card table that the ladies didn’t go near. They knew none of them fellows were interested. These cowboys had more important matters on their minds: cards.

At the head of the table was Toothless Jimmy Robertson who didn’t carry a pistol but was a faster draw with the whip around his belt than any man with a gun. His face was scarred and his skin was grizzled and he had truly lost all his teeth, but he hadn’t lost any of his keenness for cards. His game of choice was 7 Card Whippoorwill.

Next to him was Elswit Elsberry who would seem outta place to anyone who didn’t know him. He wore a black suit and a black top hat, but he had a cold stare and a tiny pistol hidden up each sleeve. He was a cruel operator who’d shoot the eyes out of anyone dumb enough to call him a cheater. His game of choice was 4 Card Hogshead.

Next to Elswit on the other side was Sammy the Bojangler. He was short and small, but his blue eyes had a certain tint to them that’d chill you to the bone. He was a federal marshall turned rogue that got his name when he tortured a gunslinger into giving up his best friend by holding a Bowie knife to his. . .well. . .bojangles. His game was 8 Card Alamo.

The final member of the table of the card playing elite was Hangman Anderson, a stocky fellow who worked the town gallows. He’d hanged about 1000 men far as I can count. Just to look at him you could feel all the death swirling round. His game was 1 Card Dorothy.

I watched all these men as they shuffled around in their seats and did their preparations. Toothless Jimmy Robertson ran his hand along the length of his leather bullwhip so he could speak easy going into the game. Elswit Elsberry adjusted his sleeves and his top hat and then took his lucky marble out of his coat pocket and held it in his hand. Sammy the Bojangler felt the braided leather of the hilt of his Bowie knife and ran his thumb along its edge. Hangman Anderson took out his flask and set it down on the table next to him—that was his luck.

“Gentleman, what are we playing?” Elswit said, initiating the match.

Uncharacteristically, Hangman Anderson called the game: “11 Card Hang ‘Em High.” The whole bar got silent for just one second; they all pretended like they weren’t paying attention to the game each night, but of course, that was the spectacle.

The storm broke outside and rain began falling in buckets.

Toothless Jimmy Robertson said, “Eweven Cahd Hangem High? Well, dat’s offly fitting for a ~47~

‘angman,” even though everyone knew Anderson’s game was 1 Card Dorothy. It was customary never to pick your own game. 11 Card Hang ‘Em High was a bit of a wild card, though, if you’ll excuse the pun.

Hangman Anderson didn’t respond.

“Well, 11 Card Hang ‘Em High it is gentleman,” Elswit piped up. “Since Mr. Anderson selected the game, I shall deal since I’m across from him.”

“We know the rules, Elsberry,” Sammy said with an edge to his voice. Elsberry deliberately avoided his gaze.

“Alright, looks like we’re all chomping at the bit. I’ll deal them out then.” Elswit picked the first card from the top of the deck and was about to lay it down in front of Sammy when the batwing doors suddenly flew open and the first lightning bolt struck down. Someone behind me screamed, “Jesus H. Christ!”

The stranger stepped into the light and said, “No, that ain’t me. I ain’t got no name.” His hair was oily black and his skin seemed almost red. He kept his hood up, but it looked like he had something hidden beneath poking through. He sauntered boldly over to the table of card players, grabbing a chair for himself from another table. He dropped the chair between Sammy the Bojangler and Hangman Anderson, sat himself down and said, “13 Card Dead Man Stack ‘Em. Lay ‘em out, dealer.”

The ladies in the saloon all gasped and the cowboys got silent and looked over. No one was trying to hide their attention now.

Sammy stood up. “Now, who in the hell do you think you are, stranger? You can’t just waltz in here and tell us what game we’re playing! We are playing 11 Card Hang ‘Em High, and if you got a problem with that, well we don’t give a flying toot because you’re not invited to our game anyway. Now I suggest you take your red-necked, half-baked, toad-”

The nameless stranger conjured a bag up from out of the folds of his long black coat and dropped it on the table. It clinked when it landed. Sammy the Bojangler sat down slowly. He sat still for a minute solid. Then he took out his knife and reached it across the table, using the point to unseam the bag from top to bottom. Gold coins spilled out over the table. The patrons of the saloon watched on in awe.

Elswit’s hand was still frozen above Sammy’s place. Elswit looked Sammy in the eyes for the first time in many blue moons, but the cold tint must have high-tailed it South for winter because Sammy looked timid as a lamb. Elswit held the look another moment until Sammy spoke. “You heard the man, Elswit. 13 Card Dead Man Stack ‘Em!”

Hangman Anderson grunted his gruff approval. Toothless Jimmy said, “Well, allbe damd.”

“You will,” the nameless stranger said.

Elswit moved his hand from Sammy to Jimmy because in 13 Card Dead Man Stack ‘Em you always deal counterclockwise in multiples of six. Elswit looked nervously from Toothless Jimmy to Hangman Anderson. They’d never played 13 Card Dead Man Stack ‘Em before. It was a game of wits, a game of lies, of truths, hellfire and salvation—it was a game to test men’s souls. Before Elswit could lay down the first card, the batwing doors suddenly swung open and lightning struck again, illuminating the new patron in a halo of white light. Someone behind me screamed, “Jesus in Heaven!” but the stranger responded, “No. Jesus on Earth.” He took down his hood to reveal flowing brown hair past his shoulders and a thick brown beard.

Jimmy said, “Well, allbe damned,” and Jesus responded, “Not if you follow me.” He approached the table and sat down across from the nameless stranger and between Elswit and Jimmy. The stranger and Jesus looked directly at each other. The stranger was angry; Jesus was calm. “Lucifer,” he said. Lucifer hissed and the patrons of the bar took in their breath sharply. The same man standing behind me yelled, “He’s got a ~48~

name!” Jesus said, “What are we playing?”

“13 Card Dead Man Stack ‘Em,” Lucifer said through his clenched teeth.

Jesus looked to Elswit. “Deal them, my son.” Elswit’s hand was shaking and sweat was pouring down his face. He looked at Sammy whose eyes hadn’t just lost their tint, but were welled up with tears of fear as he looked repeatedly to his left at Lucifer. Hangman Anderson took a large swig from his flask. He was nervous.

Toothless Jimmy looked from Lucifer to Jesus, his gums slapping together in the absence of teeth to chatter.

Jesus broke the moment. “Fear not, for I am with you.” Elswit began dealing.

“You think you can beat me at my own game? All of the men and women in this institution are mine,” Lucifer said to Jesus.

“You tried to tempt me once and failed, so I see no reason why I should lose this time. Perhaps their souls can be turned.”

The cards were dealt. Jesus and Lucifer picked them up without hesitation. The storm raged on.

Sammy, Anderson, Jimmy and Elswit picked up their cards slowly. Elswit began ordering them in his hand.

The first card was revealed from the deck in the center. A one-eyed Jack. Lucifer hissed. Jesus smiled lightly. No one played and thus the next card was revealed. A three-tittied queen. Lucifer chuckled and Jesus frowned. The teams hadn’t developed yet, but by the sixth or seventh round there were always two teams, but with the potential to switch as the game unfolded.

Jesus was the first to make a play. He laid down a saint’s trumpet, three royal reds. The cowboys were shaking, sweat pouring down their face. Those on Jesus’s team looked up at him for leadership. Jesus calmly looked across the table at Lucifer. It was his team’s play. The Hangman, the Bojangler and the Devil. Lucifer made no move. He looked across the table at Jesus while his teammates looked to him, quaking in their boots with fierce anticipation. Without looking down Lucifer played his hand. It was a warted-toad’s hiccup, three sixes, black. The bar broke into a hushed whisper. This outplayed Jesus’s hand and as a result, Jesus lost a teammate to Lucifer. Now it was the Hangman, the Bojangler, Toothless Jimmy, and Lucifer against Elswit and Jesus. Lucifer peered up from his hand and released a toothy grin from ear to ear, a bit of slime dripping from the corner of his mouth.

On the next hand no one played. On the hand after that Jesus used a move unplayed in these twenty years gone. The jailbird’s song. Two black Jacks, a triple Ace and a wild two to bring ‘em on home. The saloon couldn’t contain their shock. Everyone gasped. This play meant Jesus’s team immediately gained two players from Lucifer’s. Now it was the Hangman, the Bojangler, Elswit and Jesus against Lucifer and Toothless Jimmy.

Lucifer hissed slow and low and the sound shot ice up my spine.

The game lasted like this deep through the night. The morning came, but no one could tell for the storm was so fierce. Card after card was revealed with small victories and bitter defeats. Cards were exchanged, passed, discarded and handed off. Teams rose and fell, betrayals abounded, but Jesus was always willing to accept an old teammate back into his trust just as Lucifer was always willing to take whomever he could get.

Thus the ancient game continues for all eternity as Jesus Christ and the Devil play cards for men’s souls.

Parker Rouse ’16

~49~

Lillie Kontor ’17

~50~

Julia Granitto ’17

~51~

Title?

“I assumed you bringing me to this secluded vacation spot would provide me with at least something reasonably interesting to practice my painting on,” Toulouse-Lautrec whined, looking upon the drab and desolate surroundings with disdain. “There is nothing here but sand and water. Why would anyone come to a place like this when much more exciting locales such as cities, towns, and other civilized, populated areas exist?”

“Stop questioning my methods,” I retorted indignantly. “It would be wise of you to remember which of us is regarded as a master and which of us is merely a student.”

“It was not my choice to be your lapdog,” Lautrec snapped back. “My potential is wasted on a deaf old bat like you. Who knows what I could’ve accomplished in the realm of Impressionism by now if it weren’t for you and your silly, time-wasting excursions like this one. If any of your paintings were to find themselves in some hypothetical gallery or salon in the future, I am quite certain no one would recognize them or their creator.”

“Oh hush,” I said quickly, trying to feign self-assuredness. “While I might not be a house-hold name after my death, I am certain that my paintings will be the topic of many discussions and essays written by students in the future,” I stated in a futile attempt to convince both myself and my pupil that I would leave some evidence of an artistic legacy.

Fed up with arguing and wishing to avoid further embarrassment at the hands of this conceited teenage prodigy, I scoured my surroundings for some visual inspiration from which I could produce a painting. It seemed as if luck were on my side, for, almost on command, three horsemen rode across the beach into my field of vision. Turning excitedly to my apprentice I whispered: “See? Look! I told you it be worth it to come here. Just look at those magnificent specimens!”

Much to my surprise, he rolled his eyes, groaned, and muttered a nearly inaudible statement that sounded something like: “Not again with the horses.” Now I will admit that horses are prevalent throughout much of my work, but I don’t think it odd by any standards. How could anyone fail to appreciate the natural beauty of the equine species? How are they not entranced by the metaphysical bonds that connect a rider to his steed with the utmost power?

I watched the riders cross the sand in front of me, gathering and mentally tucking away little details (invisible to the untrained eye) scattered around the landscape that I hoped to express in my final product.

The riders and their mounts stood out against their surroundings. The gray sky, periwinkle-blue water, and tan sand all combined to form the relatively monotone color palette of the world in which the horsemen inhabited. They acted as landmarks: the only objects of interest within sight. The rich, dark brown coats of the beasts were highlighted against the outerwear they donned and the clothing of their riders.

The water was calm, and the only things resembling waves were the ripples that rose up on the beach before retreating back down the sand. I could hear the water’s journey; the soft crashing noise it made while rising before the rushing sound it produced while fleeing. There was a slight on-shore breeze that caused any potential waves to crumble while simultaneously wafting a delicious salty scent up to the ridge that I occupied.

I had no idea what purpose the riders had. To me, their posture and leisurely pace at which they rode exuded a sense of relaxation and enjoyment. I inferred that they rode purely for the fun of it, with no ulterior motives or serious intentions. I attempted to capture this immediate emotion of contentedness ~52~

through use of color and motion. The horses were walking, leaving three feet on the ground at all time. Their riders sat nearly still, with no need to poke or prod their steeds to move at a faster pace.

Of the three, the rider on the end fascinated me most. He had a certain power about him that set him apart from his companions. It was as if the sun wanted to focus on him, shining its rays on him alone and leaving the other two blue and forlorn. He rode with a humble pride about him. I expressed these qualities and the sun’s apparent preference by depicting him as having his back straight but his head held not too high. *** I observed my teacher, Rene Pierre Charles Princeteau, set up his easel and go about his ordinary preparations for beginning a painting. The old man had a ritual; a certain way of doing things that he acquired through years of meticulously repeating the same actions. To begin, he inspected the surface of the canvas for any imperfections or rough patches that could potentially complicate or disrupt his painting in any way. Content with his selection of medium, Princeteau then squirted five equally-sized, evenly-spaced dollops of paint at varying positions on his palette. He then selected three different brushes of varying thickness and length to allow for a variety of brushstrokes on the canvas. Finally, to make sure the hairs of his painting utensils were primed for painting with the utmost precision, he licked the tip of each brush. By the time all of this had been done, Princeteau looked up only to realize that the horses were no longer in sight.

“No worry” he said, even though it was visibly apparent that he was worried. “I already captured the image in my mind’s eye, as any other great artist would do,” he assured me.

I simply nodded in agreement, knowing that anything I would say regarding his memory or “mind’s eye” would most certainly come off as mocking.

Princeteau then said, directing his attention toward the easel, “I need complete and utter silence in order to be fully in control of my art.” I wasn’t going to argue with him, especially since I really didn’t want to converse with him about whatever he was painting.

I found a comfortable spot of grass on which to sit and settled in to observe his methods. It quickly became apparent to me that he was very skilled, finally giving me insight as to why my father chose him to hone my talents. He worked quickly and intensely, swirling colors around his palette before splashing them onto the canvas. For a while I was not able to discern any real image out of the madness that he had so far produced, but as he continued, a recognizable and strangely beautiful landscape quickly became evident.

Much to my amusement, all the while he was engrossed in his work he was mumbling partially understandable bits of nonsense. I most definitely heard him utter such ridiculously emotional statements such as “the sun wanted to focus on him” and “I could hear the water’s journey.” ***

Finally content with my work, I turned the canvas towards my protégée, Henri de ToulouseLautrec, to display to him what his artwork could resemble if he made any real, concerted effort to hone his skills. Instead of watching me intently, I found him rolling on the ground with tears rushing down his face.

For a split second, I thought he was choking or in serious danger, before arriving at the startling realization that they were tears of laughter and not pain.

“What could possibly be so funny?” I asked, perturbed that he was so blatantly disrespecting me.

“Did you realize you just said all of that out loud?” He shrieked mirthfully, continuing to roll around on the ground completely oblivious of my anger.

Entirely confused, I asked: “Say all of what out loud?” On hearing this, he only started to laugh louder and harder before actually beginning to asphyxiate. Springing into action, I managed to stabilize his ~53~

breathing and get him to calm down. I proceeded to sling him over my shoulder, grab my new painting and utensils, and then carry all of these things to the train station so we could return home. To this day, the painting remains one of my favorite creations, but I continue to be utterly mystified as to what my now extremely famous student found so riotously funny on that day of the three horsemen.

Henry Reed ’17

~54~

Alexa Roberge ’17

~55~

The shifting of the sand dunes shapes the environment. Little by little, the wind moves the sand which has buried the town and now fills in the lake. There is no stopping it. Everywhere there is sand, nothing else is in sight but a spindly tree, four feet tall, the other ninety-six feet concealed by the mountains of sand. The wind blows the dunes with force like a dust storm, and like dust and silt sweeping over civilization, the dunes consume anything and everything in their path.

Lindsay Reiter ’17

Inspired by the writing of Jill Ker Conway in The Road from Coorain.

~56~

Jane Huang ’18

~57~

Aidan Wang ’18

~58~

three simple words “i love you” her frail voice shook, i could hear the struggle the cancer had taken her voice managing to say those three words was a miracle the last hours were the hardest hearing those three words made it worse i love her too but i am not ready to say goodbye i am not ready to hear “i love you” for the last time

Maddie Angelino ’16

~59~

Memory Project

~60~

Jane Huang ’18

Grace Fieni ’18

~61~

Home The whole place is silent. The only visible light to be seen is the Nike which is sitting center stage. The smell of the great room wraps around me like a warm blanket. Suddenly the stress of school melts away and I am the truest form of myself. It is one of the few places in my world where self expression is embraced as opposed to rejected. The lights flash on and the slow pace of the world picks up and time becomes an object that cannot be controlled. It flies by without us even noticing. Before I know it I am up on the stage where I am at home more than any place in the world.

As I look out into the sea of royal blue seats I see memories from past shows. I can see the ebb and flow of the audience members quietly filing into their seats, trying as hard as they possibly can not to trip over the other audience members in their row. I can hear the quiet whispers of little kids expressing their excitement at how they can’t wait to see Mary Poppins fly, or see Ariel swim. It all runs through my head at a million miles an hour until suddenly I am snapped back into reality by the loud call of the director.

As Jason, the choreographer is yelling out dance step, I take a breather and run backstage to get my water bottle. I see hundreds of different set pieces piled on top of one another. The memories of past shows rush back and hit me with a wave of nostalgia. I see the little house that was built for Alice in Wonderland, when Alice is supposed to be huge. The house is painted yellow with baby pink flowers neatly painted onto the front. Although the paint is no longer vibrant, but instead it is chipped and worn. Being left behind in the dust has not served it well. I also see quite possibly my favorite set piece from a show. It is the door to Elle’s room from Legally Blonde. The door is painted with at least 5 different shades of pink, adding intense dimension to the door. The name Elle is neatly inscribed on the door. Legally Blonde was by far my best show experience. I was only thirteen when I was in the show so I was surrounded by older kids who did nothing but help me learn. I. Truly am the performer I am today because of them.

As I return back to the stage I continue to dance. Jason drills the steps into our heads until we are so exhausted, physically and mentally, that we cannot possibly continue. He tells us that we can take ten and I immediately fall onto the floor like a worn out rag doll. As I lay there I can see old strike tape from previous shows. The fluorescent tape has writing on it that states the set piece that belongs there. I can see tape from shows as long ago as 3 years. A tradition is to remove all of the tape at the end of the show, but I guess that some pieces got left behind. Looking at these grimy pieces of tape is like walking through a museum of past shows. As I roll onto my back I look up to the ceiling. There are a few lights and light racks but other than that the black ceiling looks endless. For a few seconds the world stands still and the void in the ceiling seems to be pulling me in. I feel my muscles relax, and my brain slow down. I am at peace with myself and everything around me. It is as if I am in a trance and I will be stuck here for forever. But it is a peaceful feeling and I don’t feel stuck, I actually feel freer than ever. Soon enough Jason’s beckoning voice calls to me and tells me to stand up because “We’re running it from the top”.

Ella Green ’17

~62~

Molly Coyle ’16

~63~

Ashley Loprete ’17

~64~

I Am From...

I am from the closet where secrets are hidden and mouthes are zipped shut.

The truth rests behind closed doors, under the pile of clothes, and beside the box of family photos.

The closet is where I lived for many years.

Hiding who I was in fear of breaking the family rule;

what lives in the closet

stays in the closet.

Just because you are from somewhere does not mean you always live there.

I left my home in the closet, and searched for a better place to reside.

I said goodbye to the dusty and dirty life I lived behind closed doors, and moved into a world

of light and love.

Where I am from is not where I live anymore.

I am from the closet, but I live in openness.

I have not let where I am from define my life, or hold me back.

I am from the closet, but I am here now.

Maddie Angelino ’16

~65~

Lip Slip

~66~

Alanna Sokoloff ’16

New York State of Mind The Amtrak train shot down the railroad tracks like a silver bullet. I sank into the plush upholstery of my seat, simply mesmerized as I watched the train snake through isolated woods and the exterior of small neighborhoods or shopping centers. I am used to these sites; I visit the city often, yet I never get bored of the view. On this occasion, I was visiting the city for one of my random excursions. The cultural diversity and unique characteristics that exude from New York’s concrete landscape intrigues me; it holds an enchantment that draws me deeper with each visit. While some take the city at face value – regarding it solely as a decrepit, grimy wasteland – I see its potential glowing from its very core. Both the people and the ambiance of the city give it immense character that is unlike any other. I was missing this invigorating feeling and needed a reminder.

“We are currently arriving at Penn Station, New York,” the attendant announced over the intercom.

Suddenly, it was like an electric current flit through the train car and alerted its passengers. Everyone jolted from their trance and moved to grab their belongings or to awaken their neighbors from their slumber. This sudden movement and high energy excited me. I was back in the city I love. People quickly rose from their seats and pushed themselves through the metal train doors and towards the escalators that would carry them from the musty train platforms and to different terminals. While others knew specifically where to go, maneuvering through Penn Station always proved itself a challenge for me. I was repeatedly slapped with intense wafts of urine as I stumbled through narrow corridors, all in an attempt to emerge onto the bustling city streets; New York certainly did not hesitate to greet its visitors with all of its splendor. However, these unflattering aspects never diminished New York’s redeeming intrinsic qualities.

Emerging onto West 34th Street from the shaky Penn Station escalator was always a stimulating experience for me. All of the sensory details associated with the city suddenly materialized at once. The frigid New York City winds whipped through the streets and stung my face, the sound of honking horns and blaring sirens bounced off glass buildings and rung in my ears, and the putrid scent of exhaust fumes and cigarettes filled my nostrils until the odor sat in the back of my throat. The sun hardly reached the streets and instead flirted with the rooftops of the multistory skyscrapers. Metal grates decorated the uneven pavement and rattled incessantly as the extensive New York subway system plowed underneath. In that atmosphere, I felt most at peace. I instantly fell into step with the oncoming throng of foot traffic and immersed myself among the crowds until I was one of them. A blanket of calmness consumed me as I was completely submerged into the New York City experience. All types of people surrounded me as we simultaneously weaved through the streets, some breaking off to fall in line with others. The varying types of people and structures that inhabit New York City are all strikingly diverse; nothing is ever one in the same. This simple fact amazes me; the ability for so many people from so many different backgrounds to converge and coexist in a single space is utterly surreal. The multitude of towering edifices that shoots from the garbage-ridden, cracked concrete all have a story and purpose central to its very foundation and threadbare existence. It amazes me that each person that buzzes into or past these venerable constructs also hold their own unique personality.

Only in New York can I hone the deepest aspects of my creative intellect and feel truly motivated and inspired. I walked several long blocks to acclaimed art museums in the Upper West Side to extract this harbored creativity. In museums, such as the Museum of Modern Art, I repeatedly found myself enthralled ~67~

with the artwork of famous New York-based artists, such as Andy Warhol and Keith Haring, or classical artists like Monet and Matisse. As I surrounded myself with influential pieces by these renowned artists, I truly felt like a part of the New York art scene. The slight hum of the city and the serenity of the expansive, sophisticated art galleries melded into the perfect atmosphere that fostered my artistic inclinations. I sat, sketching for hours, next to a wide glass window that overlooked a courtyard filled with sculptures.

Soft, dim lighting brightened aspects of the room that were not already illuminated with the natural light provided by the window. The soft click of people’s shoes along the hardwood flooring was comforting as I scratched my pencil across my sketchbook in long, dashing strokes. I allowed artistic diversity to become present in my artwork as I exposed myself to different artistic styles and mediums that were rooted in the New York art scene. Relaxing vibes that emanated from both the gallery itself and other patrons were also representative in my work. However, I knew my creative juices were beginning to run dry when I caught myself mid-stroke, staring aimlessly at the crowd of people that were assembling in front of a classic Jackson Pollock piece. My gaze wandered from the crowd and towards the painting. It resembled a disarray of muted colors that were haphazardly splashed across an eggshell-colored canvas; I have seen it a million times. Some admired its complexity while others seemed either vexed or perplexed about how such a piece even remotely impacted the art world. I felt myself floating through my subconscious, weighing each perspective, until I snapped back to reality. I realized I was losing focus and had exasperated myself. I gathered my belongings and ventured back into the streets to stimulate my psyche.

As I wandered through the New York streets, I distinctly noticed each passerby – his scent, appearance, demeanor. I watched as masses of people flew by me, each eager to reach their destination, until I began to ponder what their lives must be like. Then it struck me, a sensation later coined sonder, that each person has a life that is just as complex and diverse as my own. Then I imagined how easy it would be to go unnoticed in such an environment; so many people are concerned about how to deal with their own lives that one person among millions can easily fall between the cracks. Coming from such a close-knit environment, the concept of being unknown while amongst a sea of people seemed ridiculously far-fetched, but this concept of anonymity is what I crave. I am so used to knowing everyone and everything, but with so much being compacted into a single metropolis, it is impossible to even begin to fathom it all. Although being able to remain anonymous in such an environment is hardly demanding, it is empowering and I envy those who have achieved such a level of anonymity. This immense degree of the unknown is intriguing and inspires me to find my niche in such a complex environment. I want to become one of the potholes, cinderblocks, or cracked pieces of pavement that is engrained in the New York City landscape. I want to be able to naturally immerse myself into the fast-paced rhythm on which this city thrives.

I hailed a taxi to SoHo for both a different perspective on Manhattan and an opportunity to delve into the fashion scene. Upon first glance, I noticed that the buildings in SoHo were short, stout, and less monstrous than those in Midtown and Upper Manhattan. This distinct variation allowed the sun to sit comfortably between the buildings in order to completely penetrate each storefront with its scintillating rays. I floated in and out of my favorite stores and bought trendy pieces that I wanted to incorporate into my own wardrobe.

I was inspired by the various street styles I observed while either walking along Spring and Prince Street or when examining the outfits of either the workers or patrons of each store. I preyed upon these experiences in order to formulate a greater identity of my own, which extended far beyond the SoHo fashion scene.

I used the strangers I saw as the blueprints for my understanding on how to achieve the New York City identity. I learned that I want to live in a cramped apartment deep in the city, away from the eyes of ~68~

intrusive tourists, and be forcibly subjected to the incessant rumble of the city. I want to ride the subway or hail a taxi to get to work or social events just like your average city goer. It was there that I began to yearn for the day that I could officially call New York City my home.

I found myself back on West 34th Street as night fell upon the city. The New York experience is no different at night. The same hordes of people clutter the streets, each individual with his own agenda. Except now, taxi headlights and the glow of 24-hour bodegas and Duane Reade’s give the city its iridescence. I bought a slice of thin, New York-style pizza and a can of soda for two dollars at a sketchy hole-in-the-wall and stood outside to indulge myself. It was here that I felt most content. From across the street, I watched two foreign men who were smoking cigarettes engage in a highly charged conversation in a language I did not understand while a group of giggling Hispanic girls, speaking in rapid Spanish, walked by. If I looked past them, I could see the reflection of the Empire State Building in the window of an abandoned building.

Fleeting moments such as those never failed to amuse me. I finished my pizza and tossed the can of soda. I cut through a crowd of pedestrians who were waiting at a crosswalk and sped past Madison Square Garden, which was teeming with activity, and ran down the stairs into Penn Station. I instantly felt my mood plummet as I left the bright lights behind me and instead submerged myself into the dank train station.

Nina Page ’17

~69~

Grace Fieni ’18

~70~

Back to the Pond

Nearly a hundred years ago a forbearer found a beautiful town, alongside a lake, among the mountains, and almost in the clouds. The forest is almost endless. There are not many houses to see, or people at all, but there is plenty of beauty nonetheless. Over acres of untouched forest lie the lives of many other creatures, but yet not the lives of people. There in that unbroken wilderness lie growing baby cubs.

Years later this charming, adorable infant would scare a little girl and her family, and would even later become too scared to realm far from its den. But not long ago those very creatures that scared him were the creatures too scared to venture far from their den. This did not mean that the forest, the wild, and those beings were gone, because here of all places was the one place they felt free. Alive. It is here in this forest along side great lakes, surrounding a little red house, that they were at home.

Standing in the little red house it was almost as if it was the same moment. It was as if it were years ago, but it wasn’t. There was something different—something changed. The untouched forest around the little red cabin had not changed. The frigid and mucky water of the small pond out behind the house had not changed. Neither had the musky smell of wood as one walked into the house. In fact this smell was a smell all too familiar considering the time that had passed. Something about this smell, this view overlooking the mountains and this little red house, always seemed to swiftly change everything.

While driving up Tansy Hill playing our traditional “Yellow Submarine” by the Beatles, we hoped for our tiny little rental car to make it up the snow covered slope. I was happy to have this tradition. I was happy that, although everything in my life had changed since the first time I climbed that hill in a little rental car; this moment, the little red cabin, the mucky pond out back, the enchanting yet dangerous meadow, the unhindered forest,the mountainous view, the gentle sound of waterfalls almost like a symphony playing in the background, and that muddy dirt road—all remained the same. It was almost as if it were magic. All of it. I could not wait to be in the same place of alleviation again.

The second I entered the house my stress dropped, my heart beat slowed, and I relaxed. Strange, very strange, to think that here of all places is where I found my peace. After years of dreading having to wake up early and ski with my family. Hating the recreation as a whole, not to mention the raw, wintery cold that comes with it. Everyone else in my family seemed to love it, but they were good at it and that was the difference between their experience and mine. I was not. Something about the isolation, and remoteness of this cabin in the woods made it peaceful and serene, virtually untouched by the poisonous hands of man. This was the place were almost every family reunion was held -- where I most fondly remember my uncles, aunts, and cousins. But much more important than all that it is where my fondest memories of my grandfather are.

As I walked in the door I could not wait to smell that musky smell of pine trees and woodsmoke, or see that mucky pond water. I was not unhappy to unpack my belongings; the sweaters, jeans, pairs of long underwear, snow jackets, ski pants, socks, boots, bathing suits, hairbrushes, toothbrushes, glasses, into my drawers signifying the lengthiness of my stay, or even to set my alarm for early the next morning.

Something had changed but it wasn’t Vermont, or the forest, or the pond, or that little red house. It was me. Me. I had changed -- not the place, but my respect for it. I started to see how beautiful the place I was standing in was. How amazing the green rolling hills, and the towering mountains truly were. How happy I was to see this childhood home of mine stay the same throughout my changing life. How thrilled I was to ~71~

be somewhere concrete . . . and enduring.

Waking up to the sound of birds humming their melodies, and the gentle harmonies of the waterfalls. Always in the distance, almost as if it were a piano playing far, far, way. Instead it was the sound of gigantic, gusting, grandiose waterfalls. If only one were to get closer to hear what a great, grave sound they make. Replicating the sound of a thousand cars speeding by all at once, but from far away it is only a humming. A humming that instantly slows my heart rate, calming me, if only for a moment. Contrasting to these beautifully, gentle ponds across acres of land. Remaining the same no matter how harsh a year, one could always come back to see these same still ponds floating along as they always had.

There was a sense of tranquility in knowing that this place would not change. That no matter how different me and my life had become I could come back to this place and it would be the same, old little red cabin in the woods. The same green rolling hills in the summer, and white, snow capped mountains in the winter. The same fresh water ponds frosted over, almost drier than dirt. The water flowing was the same as it always had, and the frogs were croaking at night just loud enough to keep even the deepest sleeper awake. There is the same muddy road, choking on all the melting snow around it. And the same parched grass just feet away begging for a sip of that same water in which the road is drowning. There were the same dogs that would walk the neighborhood not afraid to enter a nearby home. And even the same people who were not in worry if their beloved dogs would run away for hours, sometimes even days on end. These same neighbors who had always been there, seemed as if they always would be too.

There was something so perfect about walking through the hefty snow, down to David and Lee’s late at night to tell them we had arrived. Something had changed though, and somehow, despite the panic brought with change— it was okay. For David and Lee, so much had changed in their lives, but it did not quite matter because they were still there. The same as they always had been, just a few feet down the hill.

They were grandparents now: David was getting old, so was Lee. One could even see the change in the way they walked. But all of that didn’t matter, except for one piece, Homer. He was a stunningly beautiful, golden brown, four legged best friend, a golden retriever, who had without fail always been there. He was the most well trained dog I had ever encountered, and more importantly the gentlest soul I had ever met. David and Homer were “attached at the hip.” Homer could and would do just about anything for David, and David never ceased to challenge him.

Just like that this dog fixed in my childhood memory changed, bringing instant panic. David was once again doing what he always had, and Homer, was by his side. David was using his tractor and taking down trees that were dying because he was always to himself and this was just one of his ways of being on his own. With Homer by his side he would cut down trees in the neighborhood, but for some reason it all had to change. As David took down the tree Homer ran under it. That was it.

David was distraught. His best friend was dead. There was a hole in his life now, something missing…something gone. Even after all this time as David opened up the door late that night to let us in I could see it on his face, and feel it in my heart. Something had changed. At that moment I knew what was wrong, I knew how he felt. We all caught up, and were just so glad to see each other, and before I knew it I realized it. I realized it was okay. Something had changed -- it wasn’t the same but it did not matter because here I was surrounded by people who loved me, people who cared. I was in a place more beautiful to me that I think anyone could quite understand. In fact, up until that moment I do not think I understood it’s beauty.

A little girl and an old man were walking in the untouched forest. This was not the first time ~72~

people had walked in this boundless wilderness. It was not completely untouched, but uninhabited and rarely explored. But this old man, wise and experienced, knew of this forest, and had made it his home many years before. Now he had come to share it with this little girl. As we walked her through the meadow he stopped, she did not no why but she was very afraid. For he said do not talk, do not move, don’t worry just trust me.

She was too young to understand until it was almost too late. The old man knew, knew that it wouldn’t hurt them, not if they were careful, and that he was.

That old man was George G. Graham, my grandfather. A wise, sensible, charitable, and brilliant man. I, just as little girl, was introduced to that little red cabin by my grandfather many years ago. Now here again, walking through the placid meadow, like a mirage to me now. Like an illusion. I could see myself as a child walking through that meadow each step took such great effort through the thick, paper-white snow.

Looking down my feet just as small as little birds trudging through the abundant, hefty, white snow, looking around to see these enormous, lush, bright green trees, towering over my head, and looking beside me to see a wrinkled, overworked, yet cheerful man. This moment seemed just like that memory, but now something was different…Something was changed. It was that man he wasn’t there anymore, my grandfather wasn’t there anymore. He was gone.

Walking through that meadow now I felt my age. I felt my time was numbered. Now when I smelled the musky smell of fire wood, and mountain pines, as I entered the little red cabin, I began to feel something different. A cold ran up my spine, as I remembered that moment with my grandfather. Suddenly it hit me that just like that old man, someday, I would be thing that was not always there. I will be that thing that changed. I will be gone, same as he.

Anna Mann ’17

~73~

Cece Lasley ’16

~74~

~75~

Thank you, once again, to all of the brave students who submit their work for review and possible publication in The Mainsheet. This is not something that is done lightly, and the staff does not take decisions lightly. Thank you, also, to the many teachers who prepare their students to be creative and brave in the world.

Mainsheet Editors

Grace Fieni Cece Lasley Zak Rosen

Faculty Advisors

~76~

Cassandra Kapsos Julia Maxey Sandy Sanders