Pendulum 2011

volume nineteen st. luke’s school 377 n wilton rd new canaan connecticut 06855 phone 203 966 5612 fax 203 972 3450 slspendulum@gmail.com

EDITOR STATEMENT the ephemeral:

that which lasts for a markedly brief time.

The word originates from the Greek ephemeros, literally meaning “lasting only one day.” Our lives are comprised of yesterdays and tomorrows, and we always wonder where today’s hours went. However, a short moment can last an eternity. These quotidian temporal paradoxes are characterized by the impressions left upon their observer.

The transient nature of an ephemeral occurrence leaves much for the witness to fabricate, to fantasize, to idealize—or to demonize. In memory, we lengthen and intensify moments of elation, even if they were only temporary; we minimize and abridge moments of embarrassment and anguish, even if they lasted weeks.

Who is to say that an ephemeral event ever happened or whether it was ever ephemeral at all? Oftentimes, our emotional recollections are our only proof, though the exact duration of such events may remain in question.

Through literature and art, we can distill prolonged experience or augment a fleeting moment. The beauty and terror so forefront in our psyches are born of our interpretations of passing instants—a bird’s sudden flight, a silhouette in the dark, a simple smile, a flash of lightning, a brief and bittersweet goodbye. The sum of these ephemeral moments and our resulting emotions constitute life.

—Sam Fomon, Literary Editor

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poetry “Untitled” by A.J. Bandoo “Allure” by Sam Fomon “Stuck on Tomorrow” by Lily Holland “An Ambition Toward Apathy” by Theo Kelly “Manipulation” by Alex Robertson “Recaptured” by Sam Fomon “For Freedom” by Charlotte Seiler “Immobility” by Mac Pivirotto “Barnes & Noble” by Lily Holland “A Red, Red Robin” by Jack Henson “Dead-Ringer” by Catherine Bradley “My Mirror Self ” by Tim Verklin “Permanent Stains” by Tom Delano “Time Flies” by Charlotte Seiler “The Crutches” by James Watson “Sonnet” by Walker Thompson “Ode” by Ettienna Gallaher “Faded” by Catherine Bradley

2 3 4 6 9 10 13 14 33 34 36 39 40 51–54 55 56 60 73

C O N T E N T S fiction “What About the Blood” by Alex Robertson “Jacob” by Ben Klein “Dust” by Alex Robertson “Return to Warmth” by Ben Klein “Red is the Color of the Blood that Flows”

by Nicole Bennett-Fite

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non-fiction “Library Listography” by Emily Bergmann “Baby-in-a-Box” by Hannah Butman “Blame It On The Alcohol” by Joe Apuzzo “Today is Another Tuesday” by Emily Bergmann “Applauding Mediocrity” by Ben Klein “The Not-So-Great Outdoors” by Emily Bergmann

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cover image credit of d sharon pruittz (creative commons) title page font manipulation by paige hart

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art “Swept Sky” by Lily Holland “Shadows Below the Stairs” by Julianne Wilson “Bloom” by Jack Henson “Suspended” by Megan Flood “Andalusia” by Walker Thompson “Self Portrait in Greys” by Jack Henson “Still Life Bottles” by Lily Robinson “Watercolor Skull” by Jack Henson “Ice Mountain is Burning” by Katherine Pettee “Purge the Water” by Jack Henson “In Orbit” by Julianne Wilson “The Belizean Urn” by Caroline Chadwick “Nessie” by Jack Henson “Jackson Portrait” by Jack Henson “Terra Cotta Nude” by Jack Henson “Nude Fluorescent One” by Jack Henson “Great Expectations” by Andrew Kager “Children’s Corner” by Lily Robinson “Pantry” by Lily Robinson

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C O N T E N T S “Apple Reflection” by Catherine Bradley “I See You” by Katherine Pettee “Offering” by Caroline Chadwick “Neon Nude” by Dave Havens “Precarious” by Andrew Kager “Below 14th Street” by Caroline Chadwick “Lights and Laundry” by Paige Hart “Encounter” by Caroline Hopkins “Wagon Wheel” by Jenna Decatur “Goggle Licker” by Jack Henson “Textile” by Paige Hart “Facial Figures” by Lily Robinson “Nebulous Tendrils” by Jenna Decatur “Yellow Evocation” by Jack Henson “Clouds on the Interstate” by Lily Holland “A Bee’s View” by Caroline Chadwick “After the Flood” by Paige Hart “Under Chin Portrait” by Jack Henson “Drowned” by Lily Holland

34 35 38 39 41–42 49 50 55 56 58 59 60 61 60 63–64 65–66 70 71 74

“Swept Sky”

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Lily Holland

Untitled

A.J. Bandoo

No one will read this poem for no one wrote it.

No one filled the empty margins of the paper.

No one painted a picture with words.

No one flowed a sonnet.

No one rhymed a limerick.

No one drew with letters.

No one sculpted with characters.

No one will understand genius.

No one will comprehend art.

No one will respect his work.

No one will take credit.

No one dared to write this.

No one left the page blank for someone else to fill.

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“Shadows Below the Stairs” Julianne Wilson

Allure

Sam Fomon The oriental tractor beam drew me to the Far East In jaded honeyed siren calls Respirating out of reach Drawn by that which what incenses He who understands, Wielded like temptation Yielding to these lacking lands.

By means who what which that I know Beyond it’s e’er expanding scope So to the Far East I will go Chaste, yet eager to elope.

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Stuck on Tomorrow Lily Holland

Another Tuesday One more day gone Where I just sit—simply sit And watch the world dance by I’m here—but just barely Just going through the motions Just doing what I’m told Waiting for real life to begin I miss the crunch of the fall leaves And the smoky scent of the air Because I’m stuck on tomorrow Hanging on hope— And with the weight of my future On my freckled shoulders I can’t move, I’m stuck Watching the world dance by

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“Bloom” Jack Henson

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An Ambition Toward Apathy Theo Kelly

Where is it written that each individual action, Each momentary occurrence, must lead Indefinitely toward one central goal?

As mere children we are encouraged To follow our hearts and do what Makes us happy simply for the Thrill of happiness, yet as I approach Manhood, the rules of play seem To have reversed themselves.

One’s interests must be restricted to a prison of purpose, Like some sort of grotesque garden; The appealing actions are cultivated, Not through love but through force, And the displeasing aspects pruned and weeded out, To leave behind a specimen presentable to society.

Oh! Cursed Convention, requesting such specificity From a process whose beauty lies in its uncertainty.

I now stick my tongue out Toward the establishment that originally Taught me to do so.

In a world where college preparatory school Begins in a child’s tenth year, And career options are laid out before adolescents Like clothes for the following morning, I embrace my God given right to indifference.

I tumble through life as I please, like a rolling stone Following no premeditated path, But nonetheless leaving an impact On the earthy landscapes I come across.

For my lack of a target Does not hinder my capability to shoot, And I intend on unloading A clip of hollow-point passion Into this son of a bitch called Life.

Stand back, oh World, and watch What this young vagabond can create!

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“Suspended”

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Megan Flood

“Andalusia”

Walker Thompson

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Manipulation Alex Robertson

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When I was seven years old I stopped eating and became so skinny that blue and purple patches started developing on my skin. I gradually leaked out of personhood and became something subhuman; something vague and undefined. I slipped into small cracks in the kitchen wall and mixed in with the furniture in the living room, and when it came time for church or dinner or to meet family friends I would, not of my own will but also not against it, slowly deflate myself into corners of the house.

My parents would come looking for me and I would try to yell out to them and alert them to my presence, but my mouth was seemingly smothered by the surrounding atmosphere and they would leave for whatever it was they needed to attend, and I would be left alone, collapsed in an obscure nook of my house. Then, one day, I bravely and daringly pressured my now almost two-dimensional body into crawling sluggishly throughout my house until I reached the kitchen pantry, whereupon I proceeded to eat at first little nibbles of crackers followed by slightly larger snacks like nuts and pretzels and then finally I began to devour whole boxes of cereal, entire watermelons, a package of apple juice cartons. As my impromptu feast went on, my skin started returning to its normal color and I began to expand back into my normal size, like a balloon hastily inflating itself. Lying in a heap of crumbs and scraps that smelled both of shame and victory, I heard my parents entering through the front door. I was excited to see that they had returned, as they would surely feel the brunt of the bizarre psychological punishment I had just inflicted on them, and would almost certainly buy that new video game that I had been asking for.

“Self Portrait in Greys”

Jack Henson

Recaptured Sam Fomon

There is no time in vacuum chamber Where sterile lights And mirror black capture your reflection I am bare-walled, barreled down By thoughts careening inward, Rent asunder by the engine in my navel A candelabra without candor Solid silver mantelpiece reminds me I am not at peace in pieces Though the time is frozen solid My steaming entrails will still be steaming When the clock face strikes whenever o’ clock And black mirror shatters soundlessly So I may recapture my reflection.

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“Still Life Bottles” Lily Robinson

“Watercolor Skull” Jack Henson

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For Freedom Charlotte Seiler

Her heart was racing, It hurt Every time she took a breath.

It was strapped on too tightly, Cutting off the circulation around her chest.

This will all be worth it, she whispered.

She watched the clock, attached to her death and counted down the seconds, until it would all be over.

She remembered her promise, her vow, to be true to her beliefs.

Her sacrifice would be rewarded.

She looked at the sleeping baby in the stroller by her side.

She smiled, But then the smile faded.

It was too late to turn back.

She began to beg, Screamed, he had to take it off, She was not ready to die, Her duty as a mother was not yet finished.

Before he got out the tools, The timer ran out.

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Immobility Mac Pivirotto

Names, messages and dates All conceal their gruesome fates There is a strange beauty In all the symmetry and unity So much pain and yearning All those hearts sadly churning This wasteland of our goals Is home now for our tranquil souls

“Ice Mountain is Burning�

Katherine Pettee

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What About the Blood Alex Robertson

Two days ago a man named Ian Brennan hit and killed my family’s dog with his car while turning a corner on Hickory Street Traveling from my house you can take two lefts and then a right and then drive straight for about half a mile and if you look close enough you can see the blood dark red and now faded but still so penetratingly there Thirty minutes after the dog—whose name was Anna—had been hit and my mother and father and I were deciding on how to bring the dead body home and eventually my mother called our family friend Kate Burton and said something ominously vague like Please come to the corner on Hickory Street Something bad happened I’m sorry Just come Kate Burton who lived only a few minutes away on Robin Drive arrived in her red Kia Sedona and got out and saw the blood and the dog and then said I’m so sorry and picked up Anna and put it in the backseat of her car We all slowly and senselessly got into the car trying to avoid sight of the dog Wait my father said as we left The blood What about the blood We can’t just leave that on the road My mother—she could call the pet cremation service and call the veterinarian and she could even put on the surgical gloves that had always been lying around in the kitchen desk drawer But she couldn’t look at the blood on the road and she could not clean it and she could not call someone to clean it We can’t leave that goddamn blood on the road my father said as Mrs Burton tentatively started putting the car in reverse We have to clean it up he urged My mother’s eyes started welling She bit her lip with such intensity that an instinctive yelp of pain emerged out of her throat and escaped through her mouth No her eyes seemed to say You’re asking too much her shaking hands said

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“Purge the Water”

Jack Henson

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“In Orbit”

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Julianne Wilson

Jacob

Ben Klein Jacob was sound asleep at the time. That is why, at first, he thought what he heard was from a dream. He couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that this sound was not just another piece of his routine night terrors. Those sounds were all pretense. This sound was something else entirely. His mind urged his body to wake up, to check out the cause of this mysterious noise. Jacob rose out of bed and walked down the stairs. He made extra sure to creep past his mother and stepfather’s room knowing very well that if they caught him sneaking about at this hour, there would be hell to pay. Jacob froze when an untimely misstep caused one of the floorboards to creak. Luckily for him, however, the inhabitants of the house went right on sleeping. Jacob finally reached his back door and was able to nudge it open just enough so it wouldn’t cause a disturbance and he would be able to slip out undetected.

Draped in his favorite old collegiate athletics sweatshirt and a pair of ratty sweatpants, Jacob patrolled the area, looking around the yard he thought he knew so well. At this time of night, Jacob felt as though he was on another planet: everything in his yard seemed so foreign and cold. While Jacob was examining a bush on the left quadrant of his lawn, he felt a rush of air that chilled him to the bone. He thought he heard someone faintly murmur,

“hey.”

Jacob turned around to see something that at once both confused him and made complete and total sense at the same time. Standing in front of him were two men. Men would probably be the wrong word to describe them. Standing in front of Jacob were two humans that looked about twenty-five. One was wearing a finely hemmed suit and the other was completely covered in bird feathers. This unlikely pair stared at Jacob and he stared right back. Finally Jacob decided to break the silence by uttering a barely audible, “hi.”

The feathered man looked Jacob square in the eyes and said,

“I’m Jeff, and this is my cousin Roger.”

“Oh,” said Jacob.

These men should have scared Jacob. Jacob should have ran into the house and returned to his bed and told himself that it was all a dream and then counted sheep jumping over the white fence and then fallen asleep. But for some reason, Jacob did none of these things. He felt confused about the men being in his yard. In fact, he realized he

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felt the opposite. Jacob felt as if he had known these men all his life and that the fact that Jeff was covered in feathers was just Jeff being Jeff. Even though he had never met these men before, Jacob asked Jeff and Roger questions like,

“How have you been?”

and,

“What have you been up to?”

and when Jeff mentioned a woman named Sheila, Jacob said,

“Oh, Sheila,”

as if he knew Sheila because he knew Jeff. The three of them stayed outside talking in the yard for about thirty minutes. When it was getting to be about 1:30 in the morning, Jacob was feeling a bit tired, so he said,

“It’s getting kind of late guys, I’m think I’m gonna head upstairs and go back to bed,” This made Jeff a little sad because he wanted to continue talking to Jacob so he said,

“That’s fine, man, but we were gonna head out for a bite to eat after this, you’d be totally welcome to join if you wanted to.”

“Well that depends,” said Jacob, “Where were you guys going to go?”

Jeff informed him that they were going to go to Luna Diner. Jeff said that Luna Diner was his favorite restaurant, and for this reason, he could not pass up going out with them.

On the walk to the restaurant Jeff and Jacob continued to chat. During this chat, Jacob wondered why Roger never said anything. He wondered if the suit Roger wore had anything to do with it.

Maybe it was a magic suit and it prohibited Roger from speaking. Jacob immediately forgot all of this, however, when he saw the blue neon flashing sign of Luna Diner. The three friends pushed open the doors of the diner. There was a bell attached to the door so the management of the diner would know when someone walked in. The bell rang, and a waitress immediately walked over to the three guys. “Good evening fellas,” said the waitress. Jacob thought to himself how he very much liked being grouped in with Jeff and Roger as “fellas.” The waitress showed the trio to their seats and handed them their menus. She told them she’d be back in just a tick to get their orders.

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Jacob looked over the menu, but he couldn’t find anything that looked good to him that night. He had been to Luna Diner a million times before, and every time he could find something that looked appealing to him. Tonight, however, nothing looked good. He scanned the menu repeatedly, but time and time again he came up empty. While he was doing this, he was reminded of the bump he heard while he thought he was asleep. He remembered the reason he came down into the yard in the first place, and he realized that he hadn’t even asked his new friends about it. So he asked,

“Jeff, I heard a noise earlier tonight. Was that you?”

Jeff did not break his concentration from his menu but simply replied,

“What happened?” asked Jacob.

“Yeah, Jacob that was us.”

Jeff seemed a bit taken aback by this question, but once he realized what was going on, he said to Jacob,

“Oh, we crashed.”

“Oh,” said Jacob.

Jacob didn’t want to prod any more. He was content to sit in the diner with his two new friends—at least on this night. The waitress came back and said,

“Do you fellas know what you want yet?”

and Jacob said, “I’ll have a Vanilla milkshake please.”

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“The Belizean Urn”

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Caroline Chadwick

“Nessie”

Jack Henson

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Library Listography Emily Bergmann

An afternoon in the library seems like it would appeal only to the scholarly type; however, there is a surprising lack of the buttoned-up and studious. While working for just an hour between the stacks today, I saw a varied pool of guests and patrons.

I walked in like a pack mule, fishing around for money in my bag. Who would steal a twenty dollar bill from me? Before I could start worrying about it, a vision in gingham greeted me with a grin and asked if she could pick up anything for me at the store. “Coffee,” I muttered. I eventually nestled into a corner to start writing, but was distracted by my surroundings.

A trio of languid students convened around a table, half-heartedly flipping through a copy of the latest Sharper Image catalog. I didn’t pay much attention to them until I heard a female voice shriek the phrase “back shaver” repeatedly. Meanwhile, a notoriously intelligent young man scribbled furiously in some sort of notebook while a tall blonde whacked a friend over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

By the main door, a small freshman threw down his bags as a demonstrative couple walked in only to walk out again through the far door. Their hands were

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in each other’s back pockets. I wondered what they were feeling around for. A girl in ratty boots shuffled in and plopped down in a chair. A close friend limped in, weighed down by her heavy bag, and almost fell on top of me. I didn’t mind. I stroked her hair for a few minutes before she was distracted by something more interesting.

Someone eating a pretzel—or a donut, I couldn’t tell—poked her head in to glance at the clock and then disappeared.

I looked down at my paper, and when I looked up again, a British boy was nursing a cup of something. He suddenly threw it violently in the general direction of the garbage can. A man with salt and pepper hair swaggered in, and the scent of strong coffee immediately followed. The headmaster took out his iPad and asked, “Could anyone stop the apps from jiggling?” A boy daydreamed and drummed his fingers on a table.

Before I looked down to write again, gingham girl burst in, carefully cradling a cup reeking of holiday cheer and peppermint: the long awaited coffee.

I couldn’t help but throw my arms around her and say, “This is just what I needed.”

“Jackson Portrait”

Jack Henson

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“Terra Cotta Nude” (left) “Nude Fluorescent One” (above)

Jack Henson

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“Great Expectations”

Andrew Kager

Dust

Alex Robertson I He left, so I did. In all my ten years of being alive, I had always felt, if not seen, the presence of my father in this household: whispered trails of one-way conversations fluttering up the basement stairs, the sound of a desk creaking from below; even seemingly negligible peculiarities, such as particles of dust, illuminated by rectangular patterns of light coming in from the kitchen window, collecting themselves into clusters and then flickering for a few seconds before dispersing. As soon as these little details—and my father—migrated somewhere deep into the snowy landscape that enveloped my home (and, as far as I knew, everywhere else), I found my life politely bleeding itself dry, filling itself with cold showers and the brushing of teeth and blank stares at bugs exiting from cracks in the walls.

So I left.

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II Since my life at home had not armed me with the knowledge of how to properly run away—a concept I had not even truly embedded within my consciousness by the time I was out the door—I had nothing with me. I was so ill-equipped, in fact, that upon first exiting the house I immediately went back inside and grabbed my father’s leather jacket from a hook on the wall next to the front door.

—Hello?

My mother was weakly calling to me from her bedroom.

—Hello?

I stood with my hand on the doorknob, frozen. My knees shook and then locked, clenching me between two futures. Then, in my peripheral vision, I saw airborne dust particles collecting and floating through a window to the outside world, where they left my view. I brushed the jacket off, opened the door, and left. For hours I trudged about an alien environment of monotonous opacity, dusty snow belting my eyes and then turning into water, forming rivers and brooks down the front of my face and along my neck. That same snow plunged into my oversized boots and numbed my feet until I could no longer recognize what was toe or sock or boot or snow unless I directed my glance downward, a difficult task on its own due to the frost accumulating on my neck. It became clear that my destination, already indeterminate to begin with, would not make itself known until the snow and dust arose from its current residence in the sky and on the ground and receded back into whatever hellish Beast had forced it out in the first place. Though I knew I couldn’t keep walking, I didn’t deliberately stop so much as slow to a crawl and then droop onto the ground, convincing myself that I would get up and start moving again in a short amount of time. With this plan in mind, I dug my boots into little pockets of snow in the ground and then lay down my head and looked up at the sky and froze every process in my body and mind that the snow had not gotten to yet. At first, everything was somber sky, extending its dreary reach to all four corners of my sight and obscuring everything that dared get in its way. After a while, though, faces started forming in the sky: faces of people I knew, or people I thought I recognized, or people who may or may not have existed. I blankly watched the faces in the sky going about their business, interacting with each other, talking and smiling and crying but never acknowledging my presence, and, indeed, I gradually became unsure of whether I was even there, watching these faces, or whether I was back home, eating a cold and bitter but somehow comforting dinner of lamb and roasted potatoes, my mother calling downstairs to my father and my father telling her he would be there in just a second. Soon all the faces began to blur together, and I was unsure of whose face was whose and where each face ended and a new one began, or where the layer of faces separated from the sky itself, or even of my own surroundings and whether I was lying in the flat, perpetual field of snow or on some sort of raised platform, silently soaring above the sky and above the Earth and above every star and all of space until there was just a murky atmosphere of snowy clouds and indistinguishable faces, stretching infinitely in all directions.

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III Mrs. Margaret Wheaty had always been a nervous and fragile woman, and now any mother’s worst nightmare had been unleashed upon her: her son was gone. Her husband’s disappearance had certainly left her shaken for a few days but, in light of recent events, it was to be expected, and she soon attempted to return the household to normalcy—successfully, she thought. It was only after her son followed suit that she realized she might have let some foggy notion of tragedy slip out from under the solid groundwork of her false projections of contentment. For thirty days after her son’s departure, she drifted from room to room like a ghost, staring out windows and sitting in chairs and pacing back and forth, wondering when he would come back. She almost never ceased thinking about his disappearance and the sense of helplessness it brought out in her. Her eyes and hair became grey, and her skin starting wrinkling. She started talking to herself, at first brief mumblings about the weather or how the shingles on the roof needed fixing, and then gradually transforming into full-blown conversations with herself, ones about the history of the house and how her grandfather had built it from his very own blood, sweat, and tears after emigrating from Scotland, or how she and her husband’s favorite movie had always been Casablanca and how they used to be able to recite each line, or how her mother, Frances Lane, had an extraordinary talent in that she could whistle about as well as anyone else could sing and never quite lost that ability until she died from stomach cancer alone in her cottage in Maine and how she, Margaret Wheaty, refused to follow in her mother’s footsteps and die alone, and that’s why she needed to find her son. On the thirty-first day after he went missing, she went up into her bedroom and looked out her window and felt an inexplicable eruption of hope all throughout her body, as if she suddenly felt her son’s presence stronger than ever and knew for certain he would be coming home after all this time.

She knew he had missed her just as much as she missed him, and any second now, she would hear the front door creak open, and he would run upstairs and jump into her arms and tell her that he was sorry for running away and that he still loved her and that he would always be her little boy.

She smiled, whispered his name, closed the curtains, walked over to her bed, laid down, and died.

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IV He knocked on the door three times with his left hand nervously shuffling around in his trench coat pocket. After knocking, he turned around and faced his car, still running in the driveway, wondering if he should leave, if it was worth the trouble. As soon as he turned back around and faced the door, a man, about the same age as he was, opened it from inside.

—Oh, hello!

—Hi, hello. Sorry.

—No need to be sorry! Come on in!

Almost unjustifiably cordial.

—Oh no, I just need something.

—Hmm? And what is that? You’re welcome to stay, if you like.

—I just used to live here, is all.

—Ah, did you? That’s fascinating! Perhaps you could stay for dinner and tell us a few things we’ve always wanted to know about this wonderful house here! It really is wonderful, really.

He extended an arm into the next room, probably to indicate a spouse that he didn’t realize couldn’t be seen from the visitor’s position.

—Oh, no thank you. I just have something to ask, though. Do you know anyone by the name of Margaret Wheaty? Or George? George Wheaty?

—Hmm. Wheaty. Margaret? George...no, I’m afraid not. Never heard the name. Why? Are they friends of yours?

—Oh. Just people I used to know.

—Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of further help. Really, though, I insist, stay for dinner! Joanna’s making cornbread tonight. It won’t be an intrusion at all, I promise.

—Oh, no thank you. I couldn’t, really. You know what, I think I better get going. Yeah, I’m really sorry I couldn’t stay longer. Alright, thank you. Yes. Okay. Thank you. Alright. Goodbye.

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“Children’s Corner” (above) “Pantry” (right) Lily Robinson

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Barnes & Noble Lily Holland

In Barnes & Noble I sit Unassuming As only a sixteen year old girl can be And listen I learn About you And your brother in jail Or that rent will be hard to make this month

I live in a bubble With my perfect little family And my perfect little life How long can I close my eyes?

I can see

I hear About your history paper And that the margins were just a bit too wide That you need to study a little harder For your biology test I don’t mean to listen But I can’t help it You intrigue me All of you Tell me your story I want to hear it Tell me how you feel Show me, let me hold your hand I want to take photos of you Of all of you And show them off Like some sort of freak show zoo

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There is the man With no money Who mutters to himself And washes in the bathroom There is the teacher With the red hair She teaches all the children But her hands always shake The two old ladies Who meet and talk softly About their late husbands And the life they used to have I want to know you I need to hear your story Your life is important Right?, the downtrodden Please, help me be great

A Red, Red Robin Jack Henson

The bird flew down to catch the worm.

The worm burrowed down to eat the earth.

The cat caught the the bird with his back turned, And I sat and looked.

The worm burrowed down to eat the earth.

He will live a few more hours.

I just sat and looked, As the cat stalked among the flowers.

The worm will live a few more hours.

The bird was not so blessed.

As the cat stalked among the flowers, His teeth felt robin’s breast.

The bird flew down to catch the worm.

He was not so blessed.

The cat caught the bird with his back turned, and tasted red robin’s flesh.

“Apple Reflection” Catherine Bradley

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“I See You”

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Katherine Pettee

Dead-Ringer Catherine Bradley

She was taken too young when her last bell rung Not even a gasp of air filled her lungs before she drowned in her mother Nor could a ray of light save her from the darkness that surrounded her life She was lost to a sea of gore, leaving her family in torrential rains of tears A new life miraculously emerged from her bloodbath, nursing off her remains Unable to breath and see the light that once ceased to exist She now she asks herself, was I worth the life of my twin?

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Baby-in-a-Box Hannah Butman

Due to a growing sense of boredom, I felt compelled to explore the forbidden closet located in my parents’ room. Rummaging through the shelves, I unearthed a mysterious box that contained the most distinguished milestones of my early life.

At the top was a fluorescent pink ribbon with the phrase, “I’m Six!” written in yellow bubble letters; a tan withered eye patch I wore from kindergarten through first grade that caused multiple emotional issues; the pair of multi-shaded pink glasses I wore for two years after; an old tattered book about becoming a woman whose pages were falling out as I opened it, probably passed on from my nana; a crumpled newspaper clipping containing a picture of me and the bike I had won during a raffle in second grade; and my personal favorite: a stained and worn envelope addressed to Miss Hannah Butman containing a love letter from my second grade classmate, Derek Hehman, wherein he professes his love toward me in a utterly smitten yet mature fashion.

Towards the center I found a multitude of old-fashioned playbills, evidently saved from my first trips to the Broadway theatre; a scribbled letter to Santa written in pink-lemonade-scented marker on a torn stained napkin; an old tarnished silver rattle with delicate engravings along the side; and a stamped

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postcard from my grandparents in Marco Island, Florida.

Right beside the shoebox lid covered in nasty notes to my mom was a square of fabric cut from the velvet flower dress that I wore every day in Kindergarten; a piece of gum in a plastic bag that I had proudly chewed for an entire day straight; and a frayed blue remnant of a blanket, which was affectionately known as “Blank Blank.”

Finally, at the ultimate bottom of the barrel was a black and white photo of my first baby footprints all small and wrinkled; a tiny clipping of my straight blonde hair from my first haircut; an overly-fringed and laced pink bonnet with pearls strewn across, given as a gift to me when I was born; and a small pink certificate stating that as of 3:22pm on March 18, 1994, I was officially a girl.

Right as I finished searching through the contents of the mysterious box, I heard my Mom’s footsteps downstairs and quietly slid the box back in place and sneaked back into my room.

“Offering”

Caroline Chadwick

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Dave Havens

“Neon Nude”

My Mirror Self Tim Verklin

Gripping the pencil firmly I draw you, you draw me.

Hey buddy, don’t forget my cufflinks, I’m trying to look nice for a date.

So don’t screw me up.

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Permanent Stains Tom Delano

She stands motionless at the doorway looking at the stain on the carpet There was absolutely no way the red wine was going to come out Obviously a fight would have started if the bad investment had come up His hand had just swept across the table in his exclamation There was absolutely no way the red wine was going to come out The carpet was light beige and spot-free besides the large red splash His hand had just swept across the table in his exclamation A swift stop to the shouting had ensued as jaws dropped The carpet was light beige and spot free besides the large, red splash A dash to the closet and kitchen for towels, soap, and lots of water A swift stop to the shouting had ensued as jaws dropped They would never talk about the issue again She stands motionless at the doorway looking at the stain on the carpet Then dashes to the closet and kitchen for towels, soap, and lots of water Obviously a fight would have started if the bad investment had come up They would never have to talk about the issue again

photo spread, p.41–42 “Precarious” Andrew Kager

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41

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Return to Warmth Ben Klein

I prefer to keep my room cool. I find that I can’t think or feel or move if my room is warm. I become a sloth, lazily circling my floor over and over again, unable to complete even the simplest of tasks. However, if my room is cold, around 59 to 64 degrees Fahrenheit, I find I can work.

Perhaps it’s because I believe that once my work is finished I’ll be able to curl up in my warm bed. I finish my tasks so that I’ll be able to thrust the layers of covers over my head and return to warmth.

The phone rarely rings anymore.

When it does, the person on the other end is never anyone I’d like to hear from.

Sometimes a telemarketer will call. Other times a reporter, looking to do a retrospective article on what went wrong. I politely decline these offers.

I spend most of my time writing. I am currently working on my novel. It will be the only novel I ever write, and I fear I will never finish it. The title of my novel is Bleeding Kansas. Here is an excerpt: The boys ran away hysterically. Edward looked over and saw that William was bleeding. He hoped that the blood was someone else’s, but he knew it was not. Once they had reached Tabernacle Street, they believed they were safe. The boys decided that the only sensible thing to do was to sit and wait.

They also decided that the only sensible place to do this was on Edward’s back porch.

No one has ever read my novel. However, I’ve read passages to my birds on occasion. It’s nice to have an audience. I own two birds. One is a blue Macaw named Clay and the other is a Canary named Sweet. Sometimes I get drunk and talk to them like people. I spill my secrets and desires out until I am left breathless. I pace around my apartment yelling and cursing, and my birds listen to me. I give long, boisterous speeches on the unfairness and cruelty of life as they stare. To be honest, I think they pity me. I talk to my birds about why I left and how I feel and how I am scared about the future. I find out a lot about myself during these outbursts. Usually, after about three and a half hours of this I’ll tire myself out. After all the yelling, I’ll walk over to my turntable and put on a classical record. Tchaikovsky is a favorite of mine. I’ll sit and listen and occasionally write while I do so. This soothes me. Once I feel sober enough that I’m sure I wont get the spins, I’ll feed my birds and retire to my bedroom. This happens on average once a month.

I am twenty-eight years old and I rarely ever leave my apartment.

I have one friend. His name is Wallace. Wallace was the only one who continued to talk to me after I left the company. He was my closest friend for eight years, although now we aren’t so close. Still, it’s nice of him to invite me out on special occasions. I never say yes. Wallace was promoted to president after I left.

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Sometimes I’ll yell into my pillow like this: AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I’ll yell until I’m blue in the face. And then... I feel terrible after I do this. However, it probably keeps me sane. Well, that and my birds.

I wrote the first sentence of Bleeding Kansas on a computer. I opened up Microsoft Word and wrote: For the citizens of Alma, the days began at noon.

I quickly scrolled up to the top of my screen and hit the “save” button. For about an hour I sat staring at my relatively blank screen. I hit the “save” button over and over again, making sure it had sufficiently saved my one sentence. I waited four and a half months for the inspiration to write a second sentence. This sentence said: It was far too hot to work in the mornings, so they slept.

I let that sentence sit on my computer for a while. After that I copied them both into a journal where I continued to write. I found that when writing on paper, my thoughts were able to flow more freely, as my hand acted as a middleman between my brain and the paper. So far I have filled up forty-nine journals with material for Bleeding Kansas.

I am a Caucasian male.

I experience extremely long and painful bouts of stasis.

Wallace has a tradition of calling me exactly twice a year. Both times he will call and say that we haven’t spoken in a long time and how sorry he is about it, and then he tells me about how busy it is at the company and how hard it is to try and save a struggling business. During both calls, he will invite me to dinner or a party. One time will be to celebrate my birthday and the other will be to celebrate New Year’s Eve. He has repeated this exact pattern the past four years since I left the company. Each time he would call, I would politely decline, making up a previous engagement that he and I both knew I didn’t have. Wallace would pretend to be saddened by this and then proceed to tell me how he would call soon to get a rain check. It went on like this for four years.

Usually, I don’t drink on New Year’s Eve. I find that it only leads to sadness and yelling and that it’s best to try and pretend that nothing is happening that night. I make sure to go grocery shopping early in the week and close all of my blinds especially tight. I drown out the screams of joy and youth and indifference from outside by listening to Swan Lake on my noise-canceling headphones.

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However, on New Year’s Eve of 2011, I made a mistake. It was nearing eight o’clock, and I figured that one glass of champagne wouldn’t hurt. I was feeling lonely. For the first time in five years, I wanted to be among them. I wanted to drift between social situations, trying to simultaneously impress and belittle my peers. I had no plans. Wallace hadn’t called this year. Even if he had, I would have told him “no thanks” anyway.

And so, I started drinking.

And when I drink, I drink a lot.

Before eight-thirty I had downed nearly eight glasses of champagne. My mind was beginning to haze over. I felt my legs go numb and my arms flush with heat. All I could hear was the faint hum of New York City, quietly buzzing a machine-like drone.

I began talking to my birds. I told them how I hadn’t been to a party in five years. I told them I hadn’t brought a woman into this apartment since I moved in.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE COMPLETELY ALONE?” I asked my birds.

Of course, they didn’t say anything.

I suddenly realized that I was talking to birds.

I thought about how many millions upon millions of people there are in the world.

And I was in my apartment, on New Year’s Eve, talking to birds.

I threw open my closet. I didn’t know where I was going to go, but I figured I should look halfdecent. I put on a tie and a sports coat. The tie was green and had little hula girls dancing on it.

When I left, I slammed the door behind me. I tried to hail a cab for a while, but it seemed they were all off duty or already carrying someone. So I started walking. At that point I already knew where I was going anyway.

It only took me twenty minutes to walk to Wallace’s house. It would have been even quicker had I been remotely sober. Wallace owns a town house about eight blocks away from where I live. From the balloons and lights and noise I could already tell that I had been correct in my assumption that there would be a party here tonight.

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I stood there in front of the house, debating whether or not to go inside. Even though I was severely impaired, I still knew it would be exceptionally awkward to see Wallace again. I thought about how many other people I would know inside.

Going into to the party seemed like a terrible idea. It stood in stark contrast to everything I had done to isolate myself in the past five years.

Just as I was preparing to solemnly trudge back to my apartment, the door to Wallace’s house opened. Two girls, dressed all in neon stumbled out. They could barely walk. One was wearing a tiara with the words NEW YEAR’S BITCH printed on it. Their faces were covered in glitter, and their dresses proudly displayed numerous different alcohol stains.

“Hey, do you guys know Wallace?” I asked.

The girls didn’t say anything. They didn’t even look at me. Instead, they simply staggered past and walked away.

This struck me as odd at first, but then I realized it was perfect.

I was a ghost to these people.

The girls had left the door open, so I quietly slipped inside. I was amazed at how many people Wallace had invited.

“He must be doing well for himself,” I thought.

I watched as the throngs of people moved around me. They all seemed to be chasing something: a thrill, a partner. I felt small. I did not know what I was doing there.

I found a nice corner, and settled in. I sat there for what felt like an eternity but was actually closer to twenty minutes. I saw Wallace moving about the party a couple times. He was shaking everyone’s hands as if he were meeting them for the first time, which may have been the case. Luckily, he didn’t see me sitting in my corner.

“Cecilia” by Simon and Garfunkel came on the stereo. I remembered I rather enjoyed that song.

She sat down so quickly, I didn’t even see her coming.

“Hi there!” she said.

I was too stunned to say anything. I had believed I was actually invisible.

She asked my name, and by that point I had regained the ability to speak. I gave her my name.

“That’s a nice name,” she said.

It was the first compliment I had received in some time.

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“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Candy.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Elise.”

“I like that name.”

“Thank you, so do I.” I felt like I was bleeding. In fact I was positive I was bleeding, out of every orifice on my body. I wondered why Elise didn’t notice my bleeding.

We talked for an hour and a half. Elise told me that I reminded her of a cowboy. I asked her why, but she only giggled. She drew me a picture of a cowboy on a party napkin. This meant a great deal to me. Elise wore her hair in a tight brown bun. Her skin was so pale. As we talked I noticed how thin she was. Her fingers looked like strips of paper.

I told Elise about the company. I told her about all the money. I told her about the article in Forbes magazine. I told her about the pressure and the pain and my reasoning for quitting. I told her about my birds and about Bleeding Kansas.

“Would you like to leave with me?” she asked me.

“Yes, I would like that very much.”

I followed her as she walked towards the door. I no longer cared if anyone could see me or not. I felt extremely warm.

There was no problem getting a cab this time. In fact, it seemed as if every car on the street was a yellow taxi. I stood on the corner, watching them. I felt as if they were all racing towards me, competing for me. I was swallowed in a sea of yellow and black.

“Thirty-third and seventh,” Elise said as she pushed me into the cab.

I repeated the words to the driver, unsure of where they might take me.

The car began to move.

I felt Elise place her hand over mine.

For the first time in five years, I was doing something.

Everyone always wants to be doing something.

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And here I was, finally partaking.

The cab screeched to a halt. Elise tossed a bill through the glass of the cab and pulled me out of it.

“Thank you!” she called back to the cabbie as we skipped towards the building. I was surprised there wasn’t a doorman until I realized we were not outside of an apartment building. Elise had brought me to a hotel. I didn’t care.

Elise sat me down in a chair and told me she’d handle the room.

She came back after a few minutes, key in hand.

The elevator was stuck on the twelfth floor; we took the stairs instead.

Our room smelled like chlorine. I didn’t mind. It had been some time since I had been near a swimming pool. I told this to Elise, and she asked if I would like to go swimming. I told her not right now.

We lay on the bed together. We removed our clothes until we were completely nude.

“Would you mind if I blindfolded you?” Elise tentatively asked me.

I was astounded at the question. I hadn’t had sex with anybody in five and a half years, let alone been blindfolded. I searched for a reasonable answer but could only muster incoherent mumbles.

This did little to deter Elise. She reached into her purse and removed a black leather blindfold.

Although I was confused as to why she would have such a thing, I decided to keep quiet. After all, it was New Year’s Eve, and I was out.

Elise gracefully tied the blindfold around my head, covering my eyes.

I sat there, on the bed, naked and blindfolded. I waited, in anticipation. I was cold. It seemed that Elise was waiting for me to say something. I decided to wait another minute.

Finally, I was able to squeak out, “Elise?”

As soon as I did I felt a sharp, stinging pain in my jawbone.

And then another.

And another.

I felt a rush of warmth to my face.

Elise’s fists rained down upon me.

She got up and jumped on the bed, giggling.

I was too stunned to move.

I felt surprisingly warm.

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“Below 14th Street”

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Caroline Chadwick

“Lights and Laundry”

Paige Hart

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Time Flies Charlotte Seiler

10

Minutes left.

Time has never seemed to pass so fast, You try to grasp onto it, But it slips through your white knuckles.

There is never enough time To say everything left unsaid, No chance to say sorry, Or confess your love, Only time to say good-bye.

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9

Sixty seconds slip away.

Time to decide who matters, And who is not worth The few moments you have left.

The list could go on forever, But there is no time for that.

All those you once loved become An all too distant Memory.

8

No time to cry, No time to beg, No time to pray.

Your fate is sealed.

Now you must wait, Watching the clock, Listening to the passengers’ scr And watching his face.

ers’ screams,

7

No one back home picks up, You almost let yourself smile, Mom has never known how to answer the phone.

But no time to show emotions.

No time to tell them you’ll miss them.

No time to tell your brother to be strong.

You begin to lose hope.

6

Your favorite number, Perfectly even.

That’s you, You have always been so steady, So lucky.

Until now.

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5

You call Pete, Wishing for just a few hours, Time to tell him that you have loved him for years.

To tell him that he is your best friend And your soul mate.

4

240 seconds.

You try your parents one more time.

The sound of the answering machine brings mechanical comfort, “I love you both, you mean the world to me.�

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3

No time left to call anyone else.

You have never felt so utterly alone.

You finally let yourself shed a tear.

2

He comes over the PA system, Maniacally cackles into the microphone.

1

The plane plummets to the ground.

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The Crutches James Watson

I am the chair, And you are the table.

I am your crutches When you are not stable.

I am the blanket, And you are the bed.

I am the cushion To heal your hurt head.

I am the race, And you are the start.

I am the machine For your broken heart.

“Encounter”

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Caroline Hopkins

I am the stoplight, And you are the “go.”

I will be there When you miss me so.

I am the big fish In your mighty sea.

If in life you get down, You always have me.

“Wagon Wheel”

Jenna Decatur

Sonnet

Walker Thompson I walked along a path ‘mid meadows gold That led me through the rustic countryside When I observed a piece of days of old A patchwork quilt of fields rock walls divide So I traversed the pastures long and wide Until I came upon a country lane With turning trees and stone walls at its sides Yet soon the day’s dim light began to wane And with the ancient sun thus falling fast I leapt into the quiet autumn wood And ran among the trees ‘til long at last I found a ruin where a house once stood And peering from behind its chimney tall I gazed at my own home just o’er the wall

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Blame It On The Alcohol Joe Apuzzo

As our lives as high school students come to a close, all our stress is slowly drifting away. We have much more energy to focus on what makes us happy now rather than what will make us happy in the future. The one major change I can strongly point out is people’s desires to alter their mental state.

Taking note of this severe change of attitude, I have realized that for some reason, people don’t want to feel like themselves. It is almost as if life is not good enough or not exciting enough for them.

Alcohol and other substances alike have brought my attention to this desire we all appear to share, but I think it is pretty clear there’s more than just alcohol when it comes to substances that make us feel “looser.” I can name fifty people who love to chug a cup of coffee in the morning as if they are cheating the wake-up grind everyone else has to endure. Just about any one of my friends will make themselves think they are sick just to throw back that one shot of Nyquil to knock them out when they want to sleep. People have found little ways to make their lives seemingly easier, more fun, or more interesting. We have begun to exploit the capabilities of all these substances to an unhealthy extent.

Whatever happened to the days when after winning a big game we would

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go to a friend’s house, order pizza, and play video games? Now it’s all about obtaining whatever alcohol we can and sucking it down to create a new version of ourselves that we think for some reason will enjoy the win even more. Why is a night more fun with a little alcohol in our systems?

Why do people want to feel different? I think people just don’t want to feel like themselves sometimes. At least for a little while, we want to do things we wouldn’t normally do and feel things we wouldn’t normally feel. Alcohol, Nyquil, coffee— when you use any of them, you are not yourself. And this is what people want.

I mean for God’s sake, high school students around the country have practically adopted “Let’s Get F—ed Up” as their theme song. It is catchy and fun to dance to, sure, but there’s more. The lyrics spell out exactly the way some— or a lot of people—want their Saturday nights to go. The song’s chorus proclaims “alcohol: my only friend,” and I think the exact same thing can be said about caffeine or sleeping pills. People love this stuff because it all comes down to this weird desire everyone has to change the way they feel. We turn to a drug instead of turning to each other.

I don’t know why I like to feel different than my normal self. Maybe people just want to explore more areas of their

lives: to see things from a different perspective. Maybe we think that by doing something that will create a new person in our body, we will be able to have new experiences. It’s almost as if people are living two or three or four different lives.

We have our sober selves, our drunken selves, and our energetic selves all hopped

“Goggle Licker”

up on caffeine. We all do it, and we know it is not good for us. That being said, I can assure you that within the coming week, my friends and even my family will do something radical to change the way they see things, the way they feel, and the way they experience life. And just maybe, it won’t always be for the better.

Jack Henson

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Today is Another Tuesday Emily Bergmann

Tuesday used to mean religious education. Practicing for communion with Ritz Crackers, and then going up for seconds. The teacher said the bishop wouldn’t think that was funny. Tuesday used to mean piano lessons in a house that smelled like Yankee Candles. Tuesday was a day you spent with an elderly woman with no eyelashes drilling “Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge” into your head. A certain Tuesday came around when you didn’t practice and you were told, at eight years old, that you were wasting your time. Tuesday doesn’t mean much now.

Today is another Tuesday.

“Textile”

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Paige Hart

“Facial Figures”

Lily Robinson

Ode

Ettienna Gallaher The ode that I have never wrote to The hope of life itself— Daring to pray a prayer That is lying on a shelf For sins that were not committed but proclaimed— For a picture that was not painted but framed— For a love that was not loved but spoken of— For peace that was raised but not above That lost its beauty over the years— Bearing lashes of love for bundles of cotton Beating the backs of those forgotten—

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“Nebulous Tendrils”

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Jenna Decatur

“Yellow Evocation”

Jack Henson

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“Clouds on the Interstate” Lily Holland

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“A Bee’s View” Caroline Chadwick

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Applauding Mediocrity Ben Klein

A strange phenomenon bewilders me almost every time I travel. The plane begins its descent, and I look out the window to see thousands of almost microscopic houses. I picture all the ways I could possibly die in the next five minutes.

Perhaps the plane will crash into the terminal or maybe a local school! I think to myself, “If the plane does crash, I hope to die on impact. Yep, that would definitely be better than being burned alive in the wreckage.”

I am suddenly shaken out of my daydream by the unnerving sound of the wheels hitting the tarmac.

“Phew,” I think to myself, “another bullet dodged,” but then suddenly I hear it, something that cuts to the core of my being and angers me infinitely more than the thought of being incinerated in a plane crash: applause. It begins slowly with only a couple of my fellow passengers but sure enough their comrades join in, applauding and cheering for the pilot as if he had just turned water into wine.

Now, I’m all for giving congratulations and thanks when they are due. If someone yanks me out of a burning building or throws me a rope when I’ve been inconveniently stranded in a lion’s den, you better

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believe I will applaud them until their ears bleed. However, I will never, ever cheer for a pilot upon landing.

This is idolizing mediocrity, and I will not stand for it. It’s almost as if the adoring passengers are saying, “Great job! You didn’t kill us all!”

I believe this is the equivalent of giving every kid in little league a trophy at the end of the season.

Let’s face it: some kids are better than others. Even in my formative years, I knew I certainly was not the next Mickey Mantel. However, year after year I received a trophy, a false idol of my non-existent skills and a testament to the American ritual of rewarding the mundane. This is why many American children are shocked when they grow up to find that they really aren’t the rock stars or pro-athletes they thought they would be. In fact, they probably grew up to be an accountant, just like the aforementioned poor rube.

The American public makes young children believe that each and every one of them is a shining star, a special child that will grow up to share their talents with the rest of the world. The sad truth is that they aren’t. They are probably mediocre, just like the pilot.

I believe that is why my generation will never be as favorably looked upon as the “Greatest Generation,” a nickname give by Tom Brokaw to the men and women who grew up during the Great Depression and went on to fight during World War II. These were people who had no grand illusions about their place in the world. They accepted the fact that perhaps they were cogs in the machine, but dammit, it was a finely tuned machine. The men and women of that time had a strong work ethic and a defining spirit that propelled American forward. Nowadays, misanthropic mopes populate our streets, wondering where their life went wrong and why they aren’t Derek Jeter or Edie Van Halen.

This mentality is also the reason for the surge in popularity of social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter. My generation believes that each and every humdrum chore they do is so important that they need to share it with the entire world via the Internet.

“pat yourself on the back” ideals of the American public. We are not all beautiful people and shining stars, we are not the heavenly godsends our parents told us we were, and we are not the Greatest Generation, but we can be rational thinkers. So I implore you, the next time you begin to joyfully clap your hands together for your pilot, consider the alternative. Consider applauding only for greatness, for something that is truly worthy of adoration and wonder, for something that reminds you of a time when only the best and the brightest were rewarded and not every pathetic snot-nosed kid in the little league received a trophy.

This is why I can’t stand the cheering on the airplane. It’s not that I’m not grateful to the pilot for not killing me and everyone else on the plane; I am. It’s that this idiotic act of gratitude reminds me of the current

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The Not-So-Great Outdoors Emily Bergmann

I’m suspicious of people who like camping. Imagine the scenario: you’re off in Dreamland zipped into your sleeping bag, when all of a sudden a bear comes and eats you whole. Oh, it can happen. We’ve all read the stories. Yet that doesn’t stop people from embracing the Great Outdoors. The list of things that are completely absurd about camping goes on and on.

For example, I don’t understand the pitching of a tent.

You see it all the time in the movies: a complicated manual, the canvas of the tent, the unwieldy poles, and the yuppie camper unsuccessfully trying to fit the parts together.

Occasionally they get it right, but I think that might be movie magic.

Anyway, I’ve never heard of anyone successfully pitching a tent on the first try.

Then there are the hardcore campers, the ones that forgo shelter and “sleep under the stars.” Frankly, I don’t think I could sleep with the thought that the whole universe was looking at me. The creepy crawlies of nature are another story altogether. If you don’t have a tent, it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet for the little creatures! Even if you do have

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a tent, there’s larger game to be dealt with. The aforementioned bear could probably rip through your tent with its claws and drag you back to its den as a trophy.

Before the bear gets to you, though, there’s real fun to be had! At around hour three, you’re making feeble attempts to start a fire with a lone match—or even worse, two sticks—and listening to “Oh! Susannah,” “My Darling Clementine,” or “Kumbaya” for the fiftieth time. Campfire guitar players don’t usually have a varied repertoire. The campfire menu is not very diverse either; there are only so many hot dogs, cold Spaghetti-Os, and baked beans out of a can that one can eat. The only remotely fun part of campfires that I can think of is making s’mores, but let’s be honest: if your marshmallow burns, that can ruin your whole night.

I understand people who are “outdoorsy.” I understand people who want to “get in touch with nature.” But I just can’t understand people who enjoy camping. While they’re out fending for themselves, I’ll be here in my easy chair, embracing the Great Indoors.

“After the Flood”

Paige Hart

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“Under Chin Portrait”

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Jack Henson

Red is the Color of the Blood that Flows Nicole Bennett-Fite

I started to shed a few weeks ago. At first it was only hair; I would wake up in the morning to find my pillow covered in strands. Soon after, my skin started to peel off. And then the blood began to flow.

Time passes.

I have since sewn my skin back on, but the blood has stalked me ever since. It is ever present like some sort of vermilion apparition. It surrounds me everywhere, flowing through the streets like a pervasive inundation of the mind. When I walk into our apartment, I almost slip, it pours so furiously from the cracks in the ceiling. It pulses through the walls, seeping from the outlets and pouring across the floorboards. All the while I stand staring at the ceiling, but I can’t see for all the blood dripping into my eyes.

DripDripDripDripDripDripDripDripDrip.

When I sleep, red rivers seep into my brain through my pores, saturating my thoughts and poisoning my dreams. I let the warm hemoglobin leak from my empty hair follicles, releasing pressure, keeping my scalp from exploding and splattering my thoughts and confessions all over the walls. It slithers through my veins on a perpetual quest to destroy something that no longer exists.

However horrifying its presence, worse yet are the moments when it hides from me. In those moments more than ever, I can’t avoid it. My thoughts are plagued by it. Even when I can’t see it, I know it’s lurking. A crimson glimmer amongst the shadows. But as soon as I turn around, it’s gone. I try to trick it by rolling my eyes back in my head. Instead all I see is my brain, surfing on waves of sin.

Why did you do this to me?

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Faded

Catherine Bradley Her face emerged beneath the surface She was trapped inside a mirrored world, A single touch of hope to bring the girl Back to this dimension distorted her, Sending a destructive ripple Throughout her body As the light began to die, She no longer shone And faded helplessly into the water Where no hand could save her.

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“Drowned”

Lily Holland

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PERSONNEL literary editor art editor layout design cover design, graphic design

sam fomon paige hart sam fomon, paige hart zach batson

proofreaders

emily bergmann gabi horowitz charlotte seiler nicole bennett-fite

staff

alex robertson christian langalis caroline hopkins ben klein lily holland hannah butman annabelle duncan

faculty advisor

stephen flachsbart

COLOPHON

The typefaces utilized in this publication were Bodoni Roman Regular (header typeface), Sanford Book (title typeface), and Garamond Regular (body typeface).

Bodoni Roman was designed by Giambattista Bodoni of Parma, Italy in the late 1700s. Its balance between thin strokes and thick stems exude clean and elegant elemental contrast, typical of Bodoni type.

Sanford was designed by Jennifer Dickert, whose type often evokes the creativity and whimsy of the typography on albums by The Cure, by which she was inspired. This modern serif font aims for absolute legibility and versatile usage.

Garamond was named after the punchcutter Claude Garamond, especially reputable in the 1540s, whose Roman type became a favorite of the French court for printing applications. It is no wonder then that Garamond is considered one of the most highly legible typefaces for print applications.

The 2011 printing of The Pendulum was made with a Kodak NexPress 2500 Digital Production Color Press, at Impression Point Printing

by Robert LaBanca. The technology uses Enhanced Dry Ink, which provides vibrant colors, consistent spot color matching, smooth flat fields and gradients, and the unique ability to match the ink gloss level to the substrate being printed. The paper is Galerie Art XP, 80# silk cover and text. The paper is FSC-certified and contains at least 10% PCW.

The Pendulum staff meets on the second and seventh days of the St. Luke’s School’s eight day schedule rotation. We discuss and review submitted entries, whether they be prose, poetry, or artwork. Occasionally we do creative writing prompts as a literary exercise, the results of which are often considered as submissions. The editorial staff also meets separately on a monthly basis to discuss the magazine’s theme, layout, content, and production.