Pillars of Salt Spring 2014

Pillars of Salt

Pillars of Salt Literary Magazine The Archer School for Girls Spring 2014

Editors: Grace Piccard Carly Winant Staff: Julia Chen Maria Gelabert Katie Hershey-Van Horn Sage Malecki Talia Natoli Emily Piccard Tracey Thompson Emily Ward Advisor: Brian Wogensen

Tracey Thompson ’15

Table of Contents Cover, Sonia Miklaucic........................................................................................................................................cover May, Julia Chen.........................................................................................................................................................4 Untitled, Allie Simon................................................................................................................................................5 The Dream of Being Trapped in the Sky, Casey Abrahams..........................................................................................6 Bread, Octavia Leclerc-Jones.....................................................................................................................................7 Marred Cherry Wood, Sage Malecki...........................................................................................................................8 Summer Night, Katie Hershey Van-Horn...................................................................................................................9 Ruby and Mitch, Emily Ward.................................................................................................................................12 Left Sock, Tracey Thompson.....................................................................................................................................16 Specifics, Talia Natoli..............................................................................................................................................18 Sacrament, Emily Piccard........................................................................................................................................20 Untitled, Talia Natoli...............................................................................................................................................22 Mรถbius, Maria Gelabert..........................................................................................................................................23 Cir

cuit, Maria Gelabert.......................................................................................................................................26

Swan Song, Maria Gelabert......................................................................................................................................28 Untitled, Katie Hershey Van-Horn...........................................................................................................................30 Premature Declaration, Grace Piccard......................................................................................................................31 La Spiralem Grace Piccard........................................................................................................................................36 What If, Julia Chen.................................................................................................................................................37 Untitled, Talia Natoli...............................................................................................................................................38 Arcadia. The Pillars of Salt Staff...............................................................................................................................39 Untitled, Cece Bobbitt............................................................................................................................................40

May The upperclassmen groan.

Summer’s almost here, but so are finals.

The sun keeps our attention from the smart board in class.

AP exams snatch our sleep and replace it with studying.

Graduation looms for the seniors, a time of nostalgia and excitement.

They’re finally done, and starting the next chapter of their lives.

The maypole has gone up, its vibrant colors decorating the grassy lawn.

Our neighbors know now as well, that summer’s coming.

May. June.

Julia Chen ’15

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Allie Simon ’15

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The Dream of Being Trapped in the Sky Last night I dreamt of a foreboding greyness in the sky. The clouds were weighed down by darkness, and the wind whistled an ominous tune. I realized the bottoms of my feet touched nothing but open air. My gaze fell upon the unfamiliar world beneath me. Gone were the innocent faces that reflected the sun’s glare onto their youthful skin. Gone were the eyes encompassed in wrinkles and creases, like cracks in a sidewalk.

Gone were the small, identical buildings in which we made our abode.

Gone were the cobblestone roads that endured the weight of our bodies day by day. I could see through the thin shroud of fog that the landscape below me was forest. The townspeople had been replaced by woodland animals, buildings replaced by families of oak trees, and winding roads replaced by meandering streams. I looked up at my arms and saw that they were outstretched in a “V”. They were pulled taut by imaginary strings that ascended into the infinite reaches of the sky.

I was suspended in mid-air: trapped. I tried to kick my legs through the threads of clouds surrounding me, but my body refused to move. I tried to raise a finger, but it was as if an invisible force was sitting atop it. I could only move my head. My body felt an unfamiliar heaviness, and terror gripped me as I realized I could plunge to my death at any moment. I tugged and pulled to no avail, helpless against my unseen captor. My body slackened as I accepted my imminent demise, and as I closed my eyes, I began to fall, fall for all eternity. Only then did the darkness around me shy away, allowing the clouds to return to their white, silky state. And as the whining wind grew calm, a pair of hairy hands plucked me out of the sky. The hands became branches above my head as I awoke from my dream. I could hear the sweet sound of singing birds, and the roaring of the Brod River. I was home.

Casey Abrahams ’15

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Octavia Leclerc-Jones ’14

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Marred Cherry Wood Scratches etched into cherry wood.

Light gray and erratic, they form an unlikely pattern that dances across the wood floor, stretching out endlessly, like a field of daisies swaying in a trance at the base of a mountain.

The markings roughen the smooth cherry, leaving fingertips a sign of what has been roaming.

Sage Malecki ’14

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Summer Night

The summer night--like most this time of year--was humid and so we left the windows open to let the warm, damp breeze waft in. The screens kept most of the nasty little bugs out, but every now and then one gets in and we scream for Dad to come and kill it for us. Allison, my little sister, and I share a room in our tiny little house located on 12304 Bishop Court. Our town is small and quaint, with a bunch of white houses lined up like dominoes along the streets. We aren’t very rich; we get new clothes about once a year, near Christmas. We make do with what we have. We can’t afford a ton of fancy things like brand new cellphones and computers; we have one home computer and Dad has a laptop for work.

We’re not allowed to use it. Mom and Dad both have cell phones, but not those Apple ones. They’re smaller and open and close like a clam shell.

Even though we don’t have fancy technology or money to go out to movies and stuff, Alli and I still have fun. We play outside after school, watch TV on rainy days, and read. We read a lot, actually. We practically live at the library. My favorite books are mysteries. I like the suspense. I always open the book to the very last page and read the last sentence before I actually read the book. I don’t know why, but I do. It’s an odd habit of mine. Alli, on the other hand, likes adventure and fantasy books. The only way Alli likes to read is to lay down and place her legs up against a nearby wall so she makes an L with her body. It’s fun to watch her do that in the library and see all the other people get super confused. Sometimes, the cranky old librarian, Mrs. Wells, will come over and scold us for bothering the other readers.

Tonight, like most nights, we were in bed reading. And by ‘in bed,’ I mean ‘pillow fort’. At night, Alli has to take off her glasses and so I read to her aloud. She lay on her back, her legs sticking up into the air as she listened to James and the Giant Peach. We’ve mastered the art of being quiet. We’ve been caught by Dad many times before. We’d hear his light

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steps as he would approach the door and we’d scramble to strike down the fort and get into bed before he came in. It took us a little while before we got the hang of it. We can usually get through a book a week, if Dad doesn’t catch us and make us go to bed before we’ve even finished the chapter.

During the summer, though, Dad’s a little more lenient and lets us stay up half an hour later than usual.

“Bee?” Alli asked as she moved to sit cross-legged across from me.

My name is Bridget, but when Alli was little, she couldn’t pronounce my name, and just decided to call me Bee instead. I’ve never corrected her.

She’ll probably still be calling me that when we’re old and cranky like Mrs. Wells.

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever think about leaving home and going on an adventure?” She looked at me with her big, green doe eyes.

“I dunno.” I shrugged. “Sometimes I think it could be fun. But think about Mom and Dad--we’d worry them. Maybe when we’re older we can go on an adventure.”

Alli sighed and put her chin in her palm as she drew doodles with her fingernail in the carpet.

“Alli--” I began, but was immediately interrupted by an almost angry Alli.

“You don’t think we can do it, do you?”

“What?” My eyebrows shot up. “I never said that,” I countered, shaking my head. “I just said we have to wait till we’re older.”

Alli frowned and stood up. “Fine.” She began taking down the fort.

There was no arguing with Alli; she was so defiant. I sighed and got up too, helping her fold the blanket up before putting it aside. I tucked Alli in, making sure the blankets were nice and snug how she liked it. I smiled as I watched her turn onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow as

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she put her legs in a figure 4 sort of shape so she looked like a flamingo but laying down; she was such an odd little creature. I hoped she never changes.

“Goodnight, Alli.”

“Goodnight, Bee.” I laid down on my bed and pulled the blankets up to my neck. I stared up at the ceiling, my eyes tracing the familiar glow-in-the-dark star constellation.

Katie Hershey Van-Horn ’14

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Ruby and Mitch int. circus tent RUBY and MITCH (two teenagers, perhaps no more than 17) are standing around a roped-off area; above them a group of aerialists perform dazzling tricks on silks and ropes. RUBY is wearing eclectic clothing; her socks are wildly mismatched and her linen jacket is wrinkled but well-cared for. MITCH is more pristine, the lines of his careful button-down neatly pressed. They are standing close enough to each other to suggest comfort and tension, but far enough from each other to suggest embarrassment.

After a moment of silence: Mitch I - I, uh - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean Ruby No, no, it’s fine, I shouldn’t have Mitch I just... Kenna told me that you Ruby Well, you know Kenna. She’s always saying Mitch Yeah, but this time... she said something about you and Ruby What?

Mitch Uh, just that, you know... That you wouldn’t mind being kissed.

Ruby Well, she was right -

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Mitch (with stunned disbelief ) She was right?

RUBY ignores the implication for the moment.

Ruby What girl doesn’t want to be kissed, Mitch? ... Was that all?

MITCH shakes himself slightly and gulps to regain his courage.

Mitch And, uh, that... you wouldn’t mind being kissed... by me.

A heavier pause now as MITCH watches Ruby’s upturned profile. She blushes under his stare but keeps her attention on the twirling aerialists.

Ruby (with the air of one thinking ‘f**k it’) Yeah. She wasn’t wrong.

This is a pleasant surprise for Mitch. His bottom lip trembles and Ruby finally turns to look at him.

Mitch Ruby, I - I didn’t mean to overstep a boundary, you know, earlier Ruby You, um. You didn’t.

Mitch So... it was OK?

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RUBY gives him a small smile and surprises him further by reaching for his hand and slowly weaving her fingers between his. They share a smile. RUBY then turns to gaze up at the aerialists.

Ruby Aren’t they beautiful?

MITCH smiles and steps closer to her, gripping her hand a little more tightly.

Mitch Very... They remind me of birds.

Ruby Crows or sparrows?

Mitch (with a chuckle) More like parrots.

RUBY hums and focuses on a particular aerialist who is moving fluidly through his silk, jolting his limbs in a way that looks akin to jumping.

Ruby That one looks like a flying squirrel.

Mitch Cousin to a monkey.

RUBY laughs and looks up at him.

Ruby You’re the monkey!

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Mitch I do take my bananas very seriously.

RUBY watches him for a moment with a combination of bemusement and wonder.

Ruby You’re allowed to, you know.

Mitch I’m allowed to what?

Ruby Kiss me again.

MITCH just stares at her for a moment, his gaze lingering and softening.

Taking utmost care, he leans forward to brush his lips against hers.

RUBY and MITCH fold into each other, their lines blurring; it becomes impossible to tell where one of them ends and other begins.

A second later, the aerialists finish their dance. At the sudden burst of applause, RUBY and MITCH look up, wondering if the people are clapping for them. But when the teens realize that they are just another part of the backdrop, they smile at each other, lost in the silk.

Emily Ward ’15

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Left Sock It’s always the left socks.

Never the right.

Every third Friday of the month, They disappear.

I’m left limply holding a polka-dotted and striped mate-less pair, Forcing them into unholy matrimony.

But they too are like me, Far too scarred to ever recover from the loss Of their cherished friend.

Those left socks have found left sock heaven, I say!

A place without lint or stinky feet.

A place without the prejudice of those elitist right socks.

A better place.

A nirvana that can only be achieved by traveling Deep into the recesses of the dryer, Or by escaping my tyrannical grip On the way to the fluff and fold.

In mourning of my abandonment, I run.

I stomp.

I trudge, In anger, For they have left me behind for a cleaner world.

Alone, I march forth to Target.

(Always in sandals).

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I find the closest pack of hosiery, Bear my pearly whites into the plastic, And rip it open To get to my dearly beloveds.

The workers don’t understand the adrenaline rush.

They say things like, “Miss, you haven’t paid for those yet”, Or “Please put down the socks, I’m calling security.”

But I don’t care, I dance around in my new socks I hop.

I skip.

I prance, In jubilation, Until the next third Friday of every month.

Tracey Thompson ’16

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Specifics

There’s something in the corner of my eye. It’s something I can’t see, hidden just between the crease of my nose and eyelid. It’s right there, just out of reach, just unnoticeable. The more I stare, the harder it is to see the world around me, harder to catch glimpses of a larger reality. My whole life force centered on one little detail, one small insignificant thing that takes all my attention. I should look away, but everyone always tells me “perfection is in the details.” So I keep searching for that tiny thing I know must be there. Then other voices come through my deaf ears, “don’t miss the forest through the trees,” and I stop, unsure.

When do I look at the details and when do I notice the world? It’s all so messed up, so hypocritical, so foolish. When I open my eyes to how large the world is, I understand how utterly alone we are. Yet, when I look at the tiny details I see that humans are so large. We have so much power; too much power and knowledge that shouldn’t be known. So how do I fit? Am I a detail or the background? Am I noticed or tossed aside?

I suppose it depends which people are looking, the ones who look at the trees, or the ones who see the forest. Because really aren’t they the same thing? Don’t the details make the background? Couldn’t you miss both if you were too caught up in the illusion of living? Caught in the constant storm of movement that escalates the more you sit in silence, and the tide dragging you away the more you look at the details and the more you look at the world around. It all becomes so deafening, so loud, but I can’t stay here, unsure which thoughts are from reality and which are from my dreams. Stuck in this neverending halfway point between detail and background–one too small to notice, the other too large to deserve awareness.

Maybe this thing–the thing at the corner of my eye–will tell me what I need to know. If I could only grab it, if I could only see it clearly, I’d know everything. So I stare, looking closely, squinting my eyes into tiny slits of glass through which I can barely see. And I notice now what I am: a detail in the background. Just waiting to see something I know might not be there. I wait... wait. How do I escape from this endless waiting? Why do I stand still as the 18 Pillars of Salt

world swirls around me? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I see the details and the background all at once? Why can’t the world be smaller and our empathy so much greater?

Talia Natoli ’17

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Sacrament My neighbor is robbed one night At gunpoint On the pavement that fronts the house Where his wife and three year-old son Sleep in a bed behind a folding paper screen The color of the moon over a milky bay He throws his wallet—that’s what they want, the money—if he throws it far Enough they won’t shoot him for Fifty dollars and a receipt from The supermarket All creased and faded No one knows who it is Because there are no street lamps on Our street, only a dark that smells like Woodsmoke and orange blossoms and Food on a stovetop: papery noodles And borscht, and spaghetti and flour tortillas The next day our street stews under A red dawn, and the voices of Neighbors rise Above the tangle of fruit trees, clotheslines A plastic pool, two feet deep, in which My neighbor’s son sits 20 Pillars of Salt

Samantha Rosenwald

Unaware that he might have Spent the night in a hospital Or precinct station, or morgue As talk turns to who owns a gun And who knows how to use one And why no one ever thinks to call the police The street’s children Upend plastic cups of pool-water Over the crowns of their heads Lift their chins To a burnished sky Baptizing themselves in hungry summer Emily Piccard ’14 *Poet Laureate Runner Up

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Talia Natoli ’17

Möbius There is a ferocity with which the wind whips across your face and hurtles you through the air.

Gold feathers cut your cheek and the wax is dripping down your arms, down your back, tracing your veins as your blood drums out a war beat.

You’re flailing and falling and all you can see is the sun’s dying flares fragmented across the ocean, shimmering with the steady push and pull of the tide.

There are three doors, isn’t that how it always starts?

One leads to hell, one leads to paradise, and one takes you back to the beginning: an extra life, a second chance.

Three doors, three possibilities.

Now you get to choose.

You’re standing on the window’s ledge and when you look down at the space between you and the water, for the first time, it looks like freedom instead of a cage.

Your father is speaking about flying too high; you don’t believe such a thing exists.

Outstretching your arms, the feathers glimmer in the sun, and you fall.

You’re in a room with three doors and your father’s voice calls to you from each one.

Three doors.

You open one.

You go back to the start.

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You were someone’s child once, you remember this.

You had a father who taught you to make little birds out of paper and send them flying out of the window.

You’d laugh and watch them wrestle with the wind.

Every time they’d wind up sinking into the sea.

From your position, it looked like an escape.

Three doors, three chances, and when you open one to look back to the beginning, you can only see the god-harboring sky and yourself, soaring above.

When the wind catches your golden wings, you can’t help but laugh, and the gods must take it as insolence, as a threat, as a promise that you will never leave these skies, because you get five minutes of undiluted glory before Zeus throws you from his domain.

You chase after every trace of sunlight that you can, burning it into your skin.

Then the wax starts to slide down your back.

There are three doors and they all lead to the same room.

Three doors, and you will always end up here.

You hit the water and feel something collapsing.

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Your ribs are splintering, splitting open to reveal a garden overrun by the desire to keep your wings; a weed that can only grow in the rich black soil of your childish heart.

The current envelops you, its water cool and soothing on your arms where the sun has marked you as its own.

The gold feathers drift, blocking the sun’s light. Hello.

Bubbles soar from your mouth and wander up towards the sky, towards your father. Hello, hello.

You know how this goes.

You’re in a room with three doors.

Maria Gelabert ’15

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Cir

cuit light on.

My father, penitent on the kitchen floor, searches for his dropped faith under the ruthless luminescence invading his mind.

This isn’t true. He sweeps his hands across the tiles searching for crumbs that he thinks have spilled onto the floor. All I can think is that with his head bowed and the warm light that always seems to illuminate memories caressing his skull, this is the first time he has ever looked small to me.

His self has become transparent in the past’s light, or perhaps I have simply learnt to read the space between us. light-Light as truth, light as the revealer of truth-my teeth are blinding in darkness, ivory in shadow, and stained in the light; there is color before the light illuminates them and there is color after; all light does is change the tone.

--off.

I turn, uncomfortable with the feeble creature that has overtaken my father, and face the window, my reflection that can appear distressingly distant some evenings, 26 Pillars of Salt

like the lighthouse a sailor wants to reach during a storm, and it will stay remote, stay what seems like thousands of miles away for days until my vision shrinks back to where I want it to be and I am not distant anymore and the space between me and the window is not so foreign and terrifying in its seemingly inescapable eternity and I have not been dragged away yet. The flood recedes, the lighthouse gleams.

I am still here. light on.

Pious and searching the floor for his flaws, my father, reflected in the window, distant and brilliant in his transparency-My soul, illuminated by the past resting on the windowpane, too wavering to uphold as the distance shrinks and grows and shrinks once more.

Maria Gelabert ’15

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Swan Song When I was younger and alone in the house, I’d play the piano and keep my foot planted on the damper pedal, listening to the final notes soar and fall like Icarus, and see how long they’d last.

See when they’d end.

I’d lean my head against the piano’s lid and listen to the fading notes until just a faint vibration remained humming against my cheek.

Only then would I release the pedal.

The notes would end and there’d be only my breath left hanging in the air, blood beating through my veins, my body pulsing, and the remnants of an A minor chord drifting towards the skylight.

My mother would sit next to me, though her body hadn’t entered the house in years, and she would fill the space until there was nothing but her curly hair and the smell of decaying roses.

She’d sit and everything would die around her-the sunlight, hesitating on the windowpane, the echoes of the piano settling like smoke rings on the ceiling, my violent insistence that I did not miss her.

I saw her when I was six, after she was gone.

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S he ran past me towards the horizon, and she looked back, once, but then she turned forward and kept running into the sun.

I don’t know if it was rising or setting-if she rose with the sun or dropped with it from the heavens and sank into the earth’s cold embrace to join her bones.

But my mother’s ghost would rise and set with my breaths when there was nothing in the house but fading chords from the piano.

Then I’d press another key and listen to it fall.

Maria Gelabert ’15 *Poet Laureate Winner

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Katie Hershey Van-Horn ’15

Premature Declaration INT. WAREHOUSE SASHA (Mid-twenties, a real knockout–in a dangerous way) and JIM (kind of dopey) are back-to-back fighting off a troupe of BAD GUYS. JIM

This is probably a bad time to– SASHA

Yeah, it probably is!

(She does a cartwheel kick and knees a BAD GUY right in the nuts) JIM

But I have to say it anyway!

SASHA

It can’t wait?

(She stabs one of the BAD GUYS through his eyeball) JIM

Sasha, I lo–

(One of the BAD GUYS pistol-whips JIM, and JIM collapses. Luckily SASHA saves him and drags JIM’s sorry ass out of the warehouse) SASHA (muttering)

What an idiot.

EXT. BUILDING SASHA and JIM rappel down the side of an enormous glass skyscraper, possibly somewhere in DUBAI. They are wearing all black and look VERY COOL. JIM

(looking down)

Gee, this is high.

SASHA

Keep going.

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JIM

Sasha, can I ask you something?

SASHA (sighs)

Sure, Jim. JIM

Have you ever been in love?

Suddenly, BULLETS begin whizzing around them as a BAD GUY shoots down through a broken window at the top of the BUILDING. SASHA

What the– JIM I know, I know, it’s a random question.

SASHA Shut up and keep rappelling!

JIM

Look, it can be a sensitive subject. Plenty of people don’t like to talk about it. Kind of like colonoscopies or– A BULLET grazes JIM’s arm. He looks down and FAINTS at the combination of height and blood.

SASHA

You have got to be joking.

INT. LIVING ROOM SASHA and JIM are hiding a body.

JIM

You know, my cousin Meredith is getting married this weekend. My age! Isn’t that just the craziest thing?

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Get the feet, will you?

SASHA

JIM

Wow, this guy is heavy. Jeez. I think I might need a second.

SASHA

Jim, we’re not even up the stairs yet.

JIM

This is a really nice carpet. It seems like a shame to just throw it away like this.

SASHA

There’s no way in hell I’m using the hacksaw and Hefty™ bags again.

JIM

I think this rug would look great in your apartment.

SASHA

Jim, you’ve never seen my apartment.

JIM

I was just saying.

EXT. RIVER. SASHA is tying the DEAD GUY to a couple of CINDER BLOCKS while JIM stands around and twiddles his THUMBS. JIM

Really makes you think, doesn’t it?

SASHA

What does?

JIM

You know...death. Makes you think about how short life is. How precious.

SASHA

Jim, we’re assassins.

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JIM

(not seeming to hear her)

Really makes you wonder if it’s worth it to be all alone...always…isolated. Loveless.

SASHA

Shut up and get me another cinder block.

INT. GOVERNMENT BUILDING, probably TOP SECRET. SASHA and JIM are on some kind of SECRET MISSION. JIM

We could die tonight. Do you ever think about that?

SASHA

We could die any night. Do you have the hand grenades?

JIM

Really gets you thinking, huh? About everything you wish you’d done.

Everything you wish you’d said.

SASHA

(hacking into a TOP SECRET BUNKER)

Uh huh. Sure.

JIM

I just have to say this. You know, just in case. Sasha, I lov–

Suddenly, a bunch of ARMED GOVERNMENT AGENTS run into the BUNKER. They are yelling really loudly in RUSSIAN or SOMETHING. SASHA Shit.

INT. AIRPLANE. SASHA and JOE are preparing to SKYDIVE into enemy territory. Hundreds of feet below, BOMBS are blowing up and other NASTY SHIT is going down.

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JOE Sasha, I gotta tell you something.

Oh my god, Joe.

SASHA

JOE

Just-just in case something happens, ya know–like, my parachute doesn’t open. Or my left arm gets blown off. Or we land in a river and get eaten by hungry croc–

SASHA I get it, you’re trying to say that you love––

JOE

(as he is suddenly blown from the airplane door and inflates his parachute)

THIS TOOK LONG ENOUGH!

SASHA You have terrible timing, you know that?

Grace Piccard ’14

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La Spirale Vivre par le soleil dit ma mere, ma mere de sel et de soleil et manches retroussees ses mains sur le rebord de la fenetre la levure sous ses doigts Faire l’amour par la lune dit ma mere, ma mere de néons et le parfum comme les forêts une cigarette entre ses doigts blanche, la fumée levant la nuit est noir et plein de les mystéres Translation: Live by the sun says my mother, my mother of salt and sun and rolled-up sleeves her hands on the windowsill flour between her fingers Love by the moon says my mother my mother of neon and perfume like forests a cigarette between her white fingers the smoke rising the night is dark and full of mysteries Grace Piccard ’14 *Modern Classical Language Poet Laureate Winner

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What If Walking by yourself along the ocean, Thinking about that someone.

Reminiscing about a supposed love, Remembering the beauty of childhood.

Have you ever had regrets, Too bad you can’t rewind time.

If I could redo everything, I definitely would choose differently.

In the end you’re just a passerby, The heartbreak at the beginning.

Now is just a joke, Because I was wrong.

What’s supposed to come, Always will.

What is your’s, Will always be yours.

Let go, So you can love yourself the day you deserve Julia Chen ’15 *Modern Clasical Language Poet Laureate Runner Up

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Talia Natoli ’17

Arcadia I found these words buried deep underground, tempting me as I wandered through grassy pastures, humming honey-smooth lullabies to the wind.

My toes reached for the dirt, the arcane cocoon of language, of thought invaded my mind as I observed my surroundings.

The ground squelched, and the heartbeat thrumed the steady rhythm of Acadia— deep green sleeping sounds.

I swayed gently, allowing myself to slip into a trance and be taken away, away from this reality, moving towards the promised land.

The Pillars of Salt Staff

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Thanks for reading.

See you next year!

Cece Bobbitt ’15