Mind's Eye

The Mind’s Eye

UMS-Wright Preparatory School Volume 25 2012

“The mind has a thousand eyes.�

-Francis William Bourdillon

The Mind’s Eye UMS-Wright Preparatory School 65 North Mobile Street Mobile, AL 36607 Telephone: (251) 479-6551 Fax: (251) 470-9010 www.ums-wright.org

Volume 25 2012

PURPOSE The Mind’s Eye offers a platform upon which to display the diverse artistic and literary talents of the UMS-Wright student body. This publication is the end result of purely student effort, portraying only the original writing, artwork, and design layout of the high school writers, artists, and editors.

Throughout the year, the English department offers various writing assignments as the Art and Creative Writing classes fashion pieces of probable submission. All high school students are welcome to submit works. Generally, The Mind’s Eye staff works closely with the English, Art, and Creative Writing teachers to ensure the production of compositions. However, students are welcome to submit any pieces completed outside of school as well. Selections are reviewed by the editors at the close of the year as the magazine is compiled during the summer months. Editors are selected based on demonstrated literary and/or artistic ability by the faculty advisor, Ms. Pier Hardin, and the positions count as extra-curricular activities. The literary editor is afforded all creative license to edit the submissions in terms of grammar, content, and style; nevertheless, The Mind’s Eye does not stray from its original purpose to showcase the talent of the students in its highest form.

The Mind’s Eye is permitted to publish the following artwork, poems, short stories, and personal essays one time, then relinquishes copyright back to the respective authors and artists.

COVER

“Forest A ire” Lauren Harris, ‘13 digital photo illustration

“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light.”

—Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling -I-

EDITOR’S NOTE When I think of the Amazon Rainforest, images of macaws sailing through sunlit tree towers, jaguars stalking the underbrush, and the powerful Amazon River shaping the northern half of South America spring to the forefront of my mind. In a biome of unparalleled diversity, scientists have divided the motley rainforest into four simple layers, Emergent, Canopy, Understory, and Forest Floor.

These four layers are usually introduced by a cartoonish diagram in an elementary school textbook, but this effort to create order in a realm of chaos seems defeated by images of interwoven vines and never-ending yardage of vegetation. However, look to the sky and you will see the great organizing force of this diverse ecosystem, the sun, or more speci ically sunlight. The amount of sunlight iltering through the 40,000 species of plant life arbitrates the dividing lines between each layer. The life-giving energy diminishes through the layers, eventually all but disappearing on the Forest Floor.

We built our edition of The Mind’s Eye around the idea of light, its abundance, and its absence. In life, light is representative of joy, of peace, of triumph. However, there is darkness in hardship, in loneliness, and in loss. Often, our lives are a mixture, a lickering of sun and night. So, we begin at the top and work our way down, spiraling into the abyss that threatens to take us hostage if we cannot keep in sight of the light.

Emergent: A collection that depicts the fullness of light and life, portraying times of great happiness, reaped rewards, and determination overcoming adversity.

Canopy: A smattering of selections mirroring the great diversity and vibrance in the largest layer of the rainforest and the vast array of experiences life has to offer .

Understory: Just as twilight signals the impending night, this gloom foreshadows the darkness to follow. Yet, rays of light still reach this dim layer, shining light upon the various animals, both predator and prey, that call the Understory home.

Forest Floor: Very little light reaches the Forest Floor, and this shadowy cellar holds the fears and emotions that create times of dusk in our lives. Yet, this level of dim decay provides the fertilizing foundation for the lighter layers above, portraying that, in the depths of darkness we can ind the strength and means to begin again, to rise, and to overcome.

-II-

TABLE OF CONTENTS -LiteraryEMERGENT

“Poetry,” Anna VanDerwood ................................................................................................2 “The Runner’s Burden,” Kathryn Lazarchick. ..............................................................4 “A Promise,” Nell Milling .......................................................................................................7 “From Humble Beginnings,” Caroline Garsed ..............................................................8 “Triumph,” Mary Shannon Wells....................................................................................... 10 “Above it All,” Richard Pipkins. ........................................................................................13 “Faith in Darkness,” Chase Tan .......................................................................................14 “Sunrise,” Lauren Condon..................................................................................................16

CANOPY

“Rainforest Rap,” TJ Dixon ................................................................................................21 “4:05,” Hunter Seale .............................................................................................................22 “Dreams,” Gabby Chavez ....................................................................................................27 “Sunday Shorts Story,” Daly Miller ................................................................................28 “The Rainforest: Seussi ied,” Samantha Newell.......................................................32 “Carpe Diem,” Drake Shelton ...........................................................................................34 “The Chef, in the Kitchen, with the Frying Pan,” Drake Shelton........................35 “A Calling,” Taylor Moore ...................................................................................................37 “Cinderella, Darling,” Daly Miller ...................................................................................38 “Finding Friendship in the Jungle,” Hannah Little ..................................................40 “Humanity in Music,” Victoria Mitchell .......................................................................45 “Morning Musing,” Daly Miller ........................................................................................47

UNDERSTORY

“Nightsweats,” Haley Johnston ........................................................................................51 “Imitation,” Gabby Chavez.................................................................................................53 “Complaints of a Murderer,” Avery Day .......................................................................55

-III-

“A Hidden Life,” Fallon Reedy ...........................................................................................56 “Runaway’s Villanelle,” Madeleine Samuels...............................................................58 “Maurice,” Mackenzie Pitcock ..........................................................................................61 “The Dreamer and the Beggar,” Pete Blankenship ..................................................63 “Almost,” Tom Taylor ...........................................................................................................64 “Arduous Tasks,” Reid Black .............................................................................................68 “Argument,” Ellie Flock .......................................................................................................71 “Writer’s Blocked,” Ellie Flock..........................................................................................72 “The Beginning of Wisdom,” Daly Miller ....................................................................77 “Mr. Bluebird,” Ann Claire Carnahan ............................................................................78

FOREST FLOOR

“Lady Macbeth,” Anna VanDerwood .............................................................................84 “Trapped,” Drake Shelton ..................................................................................................87 “The Plight of William Hendrick,” Jordan Curtis .....................................................88 “Capture,” Gabby Chavez....................................................................................................90 “Abyss,” Madeleine Samuels ..............................................................................................93 “To a Futile Fantasy,” Annie Marston ............................................................................94 “Truth,” Avery Day ................................................................................................................97 “Jealousy,” Avery Day ...........................................................................................................98 “Faked,” Avery Day ...............................................................................................................98 “Firstborn,” Ellie Flock..................................................................................................... 100 “In the Light,’ Will Edwards ........................................................................................... 102 “Truth,” Schaeffer Lersch ................................................................................................ 105 “Redeeming Resurrection,” Bronson Wessinger ................................................... 106 “Stop and Look,” Page Hoffmeyer ............................................................................... 109 “Parting Words,” Lauren Russell, Ellie Flock, Drew Harvey, Hannah Hashimi, Travis Goodloe, and Pranav Bethala ...................................... 110 *Artist’s Index ..................................................................................................................... 112

-IV-

“Vantage Point” Leigh Higby, ‘13 acrylic

Emergent

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Poetry Anna Van Derwood, ‘14

Poetry is A collection of thoughts, A glimmer in the darkness, A scattered list of emotions felt And audible blinks Mixed in with childlike wonder.

Poetry is a place where you taste absolutely everything, Right there on your tongue Without parting your lips.

It is where everyone is gone, and you aren’t lonely, And the time when everything is absolutely right.

“Perched” Haley Horn, ‘14 digital photo illustration 2

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The Runner’s Burden Kathryn Lazarchick, ‘13

Pounding the pavement Racing the invisible horse Trying to ill an unspoken self-obligation Blood, sweat, and tears That is the price we pay Not once, not even twice, but every single day Puffs of hot breath mist the cold air Heart crashes into the inside of ribs Trying to break free into the dark night Blood, sweat, and tears That is the price we pay Not once, not even twice, but every single day How have I come to this place?

The fatigue in my chest and legs pay the price Of inding inner peace and quiet serenity for my mind Blood, sweat, and tears That is the price we pay Not once, not even twice, but every single day The lights race by with every block Like ire lies turning their bulbs on and off My only guide to the cracked pavement beneath me Blood, sweat, and tears That is the price we pay Not once, not even twice, but every single day Finally, the end, the home front, the near Across the parking lot, up the stairs Skidding to a stop with a sensation of accomplishment and pride Blood, sweat, and tears That is the price we pay Not once, not even twice, but every single day Your body will ache, But you hope this to be true: The price will defeat the enemy, And the victor will be you.

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“Practice, Practice” Claire Kennedy, ‘13 digital photo illustration 5

“First Dance” Matthew Yoder, ‘12 oil painting 6

A Promise Nell Milling, ‘13

Two in love have come together, And today will be united for now and ever.

With his father at his side, The groom awaits his blushing bride.

With adoration in his eyes, He thinks, “I never realized That she would mean so much to me.

Oh, how great our lives will be!”

He lashes back to their irst date, The homecoming dance of ’88.

At seventeen, how could they know That over the years their love would grow?

They would ight, convinced it was the end, Yet always, in each other, ind love again.

So today’s the day; there he stands Sliding the golden ring onto her hand.

With steadfast love, he tenderly said, “With this ring, I thee wed.”

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From Humble Beginnings

Caroline Garsed, ‘13 Once upon a time, there was a man whose character and integrity shone so brightly that people could see him coming from a mile away. His name was Mark, and he led a happy and righteous life. He was tall and muscular from many years of hard work. Brown, wavy hair bleached golden from days spent outdoors hung over eyes that were the color of the sky on a clear, summer day. His face shone with pride whenever he spoke of his family that he loved dearly. Even though he lacked great wealth, he earned every penny he had through hard, honest work. He was a farmer who specialized in the cultivation of potatoes, but he could grow anything. His family would joke with him saying that he needed to share some of the magic he must use to make his plants so beautiful. His crops were beautiful just like his soul.

On the other side of town lived Mark’s brother whose name was James. Two years older than Mark, James shared few traits with his younger brother. James had a malicious and deceitful demeanor and frequently swindled others in order to bene it himself and his growing riches.

James soon became known as a crook and a cheat, living alone on the outskirts of town.

However, James was tall, blonde, and handsome. The brothers were nothing alike other than their charming exteriors. Throughout their childhood, James had always felt that Mark’s compassion made him weak. Mark, however, disagreed, believing the ability to connect and empathize with others was a great strength.

One crisp spring morning while Mark was at the market, an older couple approached him. The couple told Mark how they could not afford any food but were too old to work in order to earn money. Withered by age, the pair looked as though they hadn’t eaten in days. Mark quickly gathered some of his own goods, potatoes and cabbage heads, and handed them to the couple, saying, “I hope this helps. Both of you are welcome at my home any time. May God bless you.”

The couple thanked him for his generosity and went on their way. When night fell, rain began to pour. The couple trudged to the closest home they could ind to escape the downpour. They came upon a spectacular house 8

the size of a cathedral, and a handsome, blonde man opened the door. Unfortunately for the couple, they had come to James’s home. The elderly man stepped forward a little, and asked, “May we stay in your barn tonight? We can’t return home in this awful rain.”

Judging them by their tattered clothes, James replied, “The storm isn’t that bad. You can get home,” and slammed the door. Little did he know, the elderly couple were the disguised king and queen of Christendom, the kingdom in which he lived. The queen could not have children; therefore, the monarchs were seeking an heir for the throne who exempli ied the qualities of an ethical leader. They had been scouring the kingdom to ind the perfect heir, and their search had come to an end that day.

The next morning, when Mark woke up and went outside to check on his garden, he was greeted by an unexpected surprise. A huge carriage pulled in front of his humble home. The elderly couple from the market stepped out, adorned not with rags but with ine clothes and crowns. Seeing his look of bewilderment, the couple explained they were the rulers of the kingdom and told him of their secret search which had led them to him, their man of exemplary character.

Immediately, Mark’s face went pale and he bowed deeply. The old king said, “Rise, good man, because soon the rest of the kingdom will bow to you.” Mark rose as his dumbfounded expression slowly melted away. The monarchs explained how they had chosen him to be their heir because of his kind heart and compassion. Mark, along with his wife and two daughters then moved from their small home to the castle where they would live with the king and queen.

When James discovered his brother’s good fortune, he was outraged. He felt that since he was richer, he should have been selected as the new king.

James may have been wealthier in a material sense, but he was morally poor.

Mark was richer where it mattered- in his heart.

The next few weeks were dedicated to teaching Mark how to rule the Kingdom. After the good king and queen passed away, the whole kingdom grieved for their beloved monarchs but rejoiced in their new leader. Mark’s rise to royalty served as a lesson to everyone in the kingdom. From then on, the monarchs were selected based on their compassion and integrity instead of heritage, and the kingdom grew to know peace and great joy.

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Triumph Mary Shannon Wells, ‘13

Evil seeks and inds us And bends us ‘til we break, But Hope whispers in our heads, “Just leave this up to Me.” And when at last our triumph comes, And at last we do succeed, We look to the sky and thank Him, Because He is all we need.

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“Fanned Fronds” Luke Dunaway, ‘12 digital photo illustration 11

“Skyward Branch” Kendall Baker, ‘14 watercolor 12

Above It All Richard Pipkins, ‘13

Hiking up the powdery slope, Passing evergreen pines covered in white blankets In everlasting sheets of fallen crystals To a place never before tracked, I look down from the peaceful peak To see a diminished valley full of the fears Once plaguing my every, waking moment.

From up here, they seem far away, small, insigni icant.

After a rest, I am ready to proceed Over the never-ending pillows of white snow With the new feeling of freedom comforting me.

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Faith In Darkness Chase Tan, ‘13 On April 28, 2012, I stood defeated after a painful, sub-par season of Track and Field. The upcoming race would be my last as far as I was concerned. I was giving up, giving up on the sport that most people would consider the de inition of who I really am. I felt broken after a season of perceived failures and disappointments.

Looking above at the overcast skies, I tried to remember a time when I was four or ive years old. If someone had told me that I couldn’t do something at that age, I wouldn’t have believed them. I was too young for fear or self-doubt. Our spirits are most free in our youth because we have no fear, but our actions are later controlled by the emotion. We don’t mature with age, we conform to fear’s in luence. We stop seeing our possibilities and dwell on ideas of failure. I didn’t believe in myself because I had conformed my life to match those around me.

My inal thought before heading to the line was “Fear the light, not the darkness.”

I was about to discover what this fragment of a phrase meant; I was about to chase a time that would stop before fear could start and a performance that would both inspire and display greatness. All twenty-four competitors tucked our shirts in, inhaling and exhaling deeply while eying the starting line for the 800-meter run. This is a man’s race for select athletes who can maintain their sprinting times with endurance.

The ominous clouds dragged themselves across the sky as I gathered my thoughts for the inal act before battle- a prayer with God. When the lane assignments were given, I learned I was the underdog in lane two.

But for the irst time in my life, I was comfortable with the realization of my laws and weaknesses. As we were waiting for the starter to load his gun, I listened to all of the cheers directed towards those around me. No one was expecting a great race from me.

In this race I was running with my heart, my spirit, and most importantly God. People always tell me, “Run with your head. Don’t go out too fast.” Maybe they’re right, but if I’m going to lose, I’m going to lose running my hardest and holding nothing back.

The gun rose to the thick, dark sky above.

“On your mark.” I crept up to the line.

“Get set.”

The handgun blasted one round, and I broke into a sprint for the irst seventy- ive meters, barely leading the other runners by a few inches. I led a pack of wolves that symbolized my fear. However, they wouldn’t be my fear much longer as I was about to become theirs. Two sprinters came up on me after 190 meters, right in my back pocket.

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“No, not today,” I thought. A year ago, a month ago, they might have passed me, but today I was going to beat everyone from start to inish. Just as I kicked up the pace to toughen the challenge, I heard a voice shout, “BE SMART.” All my life I have been told what I can’t do. If that is smart, then I’m going to run stupid because that is the only way I can do my very best. Those words inspired me to show that the dark track had a special light, and my ight for it had just begun. I hastily breezed around the second curve to the straightaway. I heard parents and coaches scream comments like “He’s dying!” and “Get that Kid!” I clocked in my irst quarter mile in ifty-nine seconds. I felt the gloomy darkness begin to disappear, and I took this as a sign that God believed in me.

My body began to ache and my legs began to stiffen. “Pain can wait,” I remember thinking, “but I can’t.” I had no time to wait on pain or other runners and especially not for fear. Battling down the backstretch, I could hear the combination of forty-six pounding feet merely steps behind me.

I began a kick that would excite the God that enabled me to ind strength in a time of absolute darkness. The crowd rose from its seats, and I began to hear its excited roar. The entire front pack of runners was still intact except for me, a stride 15

out in front. I rounded the last curve with blistering speed and began a hundred meter dart down the homestretch. I had broken free of the competition and knew it with ifty meters left to go, but in my inal strides, my spirit’s chase for the best persisted in me. It was my spirit’s chase for the true Chase.

I crossed the line with a personal record of two minutes, three seconds. It was a time free from fear, a time with which God would be satis ied. The purpose of this race wasn’t to prove those who didn’t believe in me wrong. My purpose was to show a young boy or girl in the stands that someday God will need him or her to have faith in the darkness, that in the lowest lows God is there to push you forward and beyond any earthly expectations. A ray of light broke through the clouds and shone down on the track, and I took this as a sign of God’s appreciation for my use of the gift He granted to me. I jogged off the track with sweaty shoes in hand and a faith- illed heart in my chest as I smiled to heaven where we will all meet the ultimate light.

“Pursuing Rays” Claire Kennedy, ‘13 digital photo illustration

Sunrise Lauren Condon, ‘13

Rising from the ground, Releasing rays of warmth and light, The sun’s sensation spreads As its light shines upon me.

Birds praise, give thanks for a new day.

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“Flutter 1, 2, & 3” Eileen Shepard, ‘12 digital photo illustration

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“Source of Life” Madeleine Boudreaux, ‘12 acrylic 18

Canopy 19

“Bamboozled” D’Andre Smith, ‘14 acrylic 20

Rainforest Rap T.J. Dixon, ‘13

Shout out to amphibians, the ones with swag!

Ain’t no reason for the reptiles to brag.

We got snakes, lizards, gators, and frogs All hip-hoppin’ from tree trunk to log.

With so many species it’s obscene, Don’t cut down the trees, man, just go green!

Survival of the ittest, the dangerous game, Try not to get eaten, no need for blame.

Better than the cities, the woods, or the ocean, We’re forever raining like we’re brewing a potion.

Sorry to my haters, the tundras and wetlands, To the lame deserts, with their shifting sands, What can I say, tropics beat out the rest!

Forever is and to be, the best of the best!

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4:05 Hunter Seale, ‘12

Suddenly awakened by the alarm clock, I glance over in a daze.

“Four o’clock already?” I say to myself as I fumble for the snooze button. Soon enough though, my feet hit the loor, and I start to scramble for the light switch. As the room grows bright, I look into the kitchen.

“How pathetic,” I think. “My dog gets more sleep than I do.”

For some strange reason, I’m craving orange juice. To my pleasant surprise, there’s a carton of Tropicana sitting all by itself in the refrigerator. After inishing what’s left of the container, I can tell that this is going to be a good day. The sun starts to rise, perhaps just as fast as my blood is lowing. I am so excited- my irst day back to surf after last week’s unfortunate weather kept me beached and pent up in my rustic shack with no company other than a leabag mutt.

I sweep outside, anticipating the glowing sun as it tops Mount Kihei. Running back inside, I grab my board and hear the back door slam behind me. For a moment, I feel like a child getting ready for a birthday party. Quick as a cat, I throw my board in the back seat and crank the engine. I’m off to Wiki beach. A few miles down the road, a hitchhiker stands as if awaiting my arrival. I slow down the car and pull up beside the stranger.

“Need a ride?”

“Depends,” he chuckles. “Where are you going?”

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“Wiki Beach,” I reply casually.

“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you. There’s a terrible storm heading right that way,” he says with an air of concern.

Not thinking, I reply, “No storm’s going to hurt me.”

I drive away, seeing the old man shake his head in my rear-view mirror.

“Weird,” I think. “Really weird.” The thought of this man and his appearance agitates me for the next two miles or so. He looks just like my Pop, but I know he isn’t.

He couldn’t be. My father was drafted into the army years ago, and I haven’t seen him since I was twelve. There’s no way it could be him.

Finally, I arrive at my destination. Wiki Beach is calling my name. The waves crash into the shore so elegantly - every surfer’s dream. This couldn’t be any better. With pumping adrenaline and shaking hands, I wax my board as fast as I can and then sprint out to the water. I paddle about seventy yards offshore and begin to scout for the perfect wave. With precise timing, I hop up on my board and ride the wave, feeling like a champion. It feels amazing just to be out in the beautiful ocean with no worries or problems.

After riding several waves, the clouds begin to close in as the old man’s prediction comes true. However, I’m too young and stubborn to pay any attention to the impending storm. As I begin to make another seventy yard paddle, the air-horn sounds from the beach, notifying all surfers and swimmers to evacuate the water. I ignore the warning.

“One more wave,” I think.

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I keep paddling. Behind me is possibly the biggest wave I have ever seen. Every shade of blue colors this monstrous blanket of liquid. Smiling from ear to ear, I time my hop and begin to ride the tube. Inside of this cylindrical waterfall, I lose track of my position in reference to the beach. I have no clue where I will wind up once I hit the end of this aquatic phenomenon. Suddenly, my emotions shift from excitement to fear.

As I exit the turquoise tunnel, a massive heap of twisted coral awaits me. My heart sinks to my stomach. As the nose of my board crashes into the edge of the reef, I sail in the opposite direction. Everything abruptly slows down. I smell the salty air; I feel each drop of water race down my skin; my eyes burn from the sting of saltwater; I can hear the wave crashing around me.

All at once, I realize that I am headed for the coral mound that just destroyed my sur board. Breaking both the surface of the water and my epidermis, I slam into the reef. This sunny June day quickly becomes darker than I could have ever imagined.

Rudely awakened by the alarm clock once more, I glance over in a murky daze.

The clock reads ‘4:05.’

“Self Portrait” Hunter Seale, ‘12 mixed media

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“Twinkle” Eileen Shepard, ‘12 digital photo illustration 26

Dreams

Gabby Chavez, ‘13

It happens every time I close my eyes to sleep— A sweet slumber falls over me.

I’m invisible, loating off my feet.

Fuchsia, aqua, lilac, jasmine, so bright and beautiful.

The people I meet are genuine and kind with velveteen voices.

They follow the philosophy of one reggae king. No worries.

The only place where I’m free, Here In my dreams.

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Sunday Shorts Story Daly Miller, ‘12

She sat, tanned arms crossed and dark brows furrowed, dirty feet kicking back and forth, as she watched her grandmother pull out dresses and skirts, one right after the other. She looked down, absentmindedly tracing the blue and yellow lowers that swirled across the bed, her tiny ingers following the delicate patterns as she tried to come up with a plan. Looking up, she saw her grandmother had decided on a red dress with little white stripes. Well, at least it’s not pink, she thought to herself. With a large sigh, she slid down from the king-sized bed, reaching her right foot down to touch the blue carpet irst so she wouldn’t fall.

“Daly, go wash your feet right this instant! We need to leave for church in thirty minutes! How can they already be dirty this early in the morning!” her grandmother demanded.

With a small shrug of her shoulders, Daly simply said, “They’re always dirty Mimmie. I hate shoes.”

As Mimmie walked out of the room and headed to the other side of the house to inish putting on her makeup, Daly went into the bathroom, hopping over the creaky spot on the loor onto the cool tile. She lipped the light on and nimbly hopped up onto the smooth counter, with a practiced air she turned the sink on, licking her ingers under the water to check the temperature. Once she had it just right, she placed her feet into the sink and started rubbing them, trying her best to clean her dirt-stained toes. With the initial contact of the water on her feet, brown streams began steadily lowing down the drain, spiraling away until there was no trace left. Grabbing the hand towel from its place on the wall, Daly removed the last droplets of water and stuffed the now damp towel back through its rung and hopped down.

Before leaving the bathroom, Daly listened carefully for the sounds of her grandmother on the other end of the house. After a moment she heard the whirring sound of the dryer click on and she knew she was in the clear. With a small satis ied smile, she hopped again across the creaky tile into her bedroom. Heart pounding and ears straining for 28

the reassuring sound of the dryer, Daly ran to the closet and silently opened the doors. Fearing discovery, she quickly snatched up her favorite pair of magenta nylon Soffees, balled them up and hid them in her underwear. There’s no way Mimmie will ind them this time, Daly thought con idently to herself. Returning to her parents’ bedroom, she stripped and slid the dreaded dress over her head, hating the breezy feeling the dress brought with it. Only girly girls wear dresses, she thought resentfully.

Shorts successfully tucked away, Daly made her way into the living room to wait on Mimmie to be ready. And almost immediately Mimmie appeared from the back hallway, white hair luffed, and ruby red lipstick gleaming in the low kitchen light.

“Now you don’t have those awful shorts on under your dress do you?” Mimmie questioned, head tilted and eyebrows slightly raised.

“No ma’am” Daly answered, feeling small bits of remorse beginning “Childhood Memories” Genevieve Clavel, ‘12 pastel

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to creep in. She hated lying, but she igured it was not really lying; she wasn’t wearing the shorts…yet. Satis ied with her reasoning, Daly even lifted her hem to prove that she didn’t have the shorts on.

With a reassured smile, Mimmie turned and opened the door heading down the stairs, Daly trailing close after her. With Mimmie and Grandaddy in the front seats talking about boring adult things, Daly ever so sneakily pulled the shorts out and slid them on. It took a conscious effort for her to not sigh in relief-no more breezy feeling!

— the comfort of the soft nylon was amazing. Before she knew it, they had arrived at the small Episcopal church and pulled into the crunchy gravel.

Taking their seats in the worn, wooden pews, Daly sighed inwardly, thinking of the coming boredom. As the older man droned on, Daly tuned out and began her routine of inspecting the shapes, images, and colors of the various stained-glass windows throughout the small church, allowing her mind to wander. She knew that now she was in the clear. It would not matter whether Mimmie discovered her treachery or not now; it was much too late for her to do anything 30

about it. As she moved along with the rest of the congregation to the kneelers, her hem got caught up on the pew, and a small corner of nylon purple fabric peeped through. Snatching the betraying hem, she yanked it down and looked up at her grandmother to see if she had evaded discovery. No, her grandmother had seen and her eyes narrowed, lips tightening into something like a grimace.

Busted, Daly thought dejectedly. Because she was on the outside of the pew, she knew she could escape to the reception hall if she could only manage to slip out before everyone stepped into the aisle, trapping her with Mimmie and her glare. Plus, there were cookies in there, an added bonus, she remembered. Avoiding her grandmother’s disapproving glare, Daly waited, poised to spring, for the minister to say those two magic words signaling the end!

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” the priest declared.

Daly jumped into action, nearly leaping out of her seat and practically running to avoid those who were also exiting their rows. Once she reached the entryway, Daly glanced back to see how much time she had until Mimmie found her. Good, she’s talking to Ms. Sue. That will give me plenty of time to get out, Daly thought with satisfaction.

Breaking through the crowd, she reached the reception hall irst and made an immediate beeline for the dessert table. She made a quick assessment of her options and decided on two, no, three chocolate chip cookies, a lemon square, and a brownie to go in her pocket for later. Once she had gathered her assortment together and taken her irst munch into the delicious little cookie, she looked to the door.

Mimmie had just walked in.

On her face was an expression that started out stern, but as she noticed my bulging pocket, full hands, and bite already in her mouth, her face softened and the corners of her bright red mouth raised at the corners. She seemed to realize she had begun to smile and tried to erase it, but Daly had seen it. She knew she was not in trouble, at least for the time being.

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“Childhood Memories 2” Genevieve Clavel, ‘12 marker

The Rainforest Seussified Samantha Newell, ‘12

There is a layer of leaves and branches In a forest far away from your cattle and ranches.

It bends and twists into a maze Beneath the layer where a monkey plays.

The sunlight is blocked by this maze too, So blocked, in fact, that no light shines through.

This maze may cause your thoughts to be hazy.

A complicated situation making you crazy.

But don’t overthink or worry your mind— By working calmly, success is de ined!

Dr. Seuss taught us to show what we know, And just like he said, “Oh, the places you’ll go!”

“Max Masks Bouquet” Tori Fowler, ‘12 colored ink

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Carpe Diem Drake Shelton, ‘12

“Seize the day,” they always say.

But if you don’t mind I think I may, just lay upon this bale of hay And, instead, sleep the day away.

“Peak-A-Boo” Genevieve Clavel, ‘12 pastel 34

The Chef, in the Kitchen, with the Frying Pan Drake Shelton, ‘12

The screech was heard kitchen-wide, The pan had tanned the omelet’s hide.

His body simmered inside the pan, And his grief was echoed throughout the land.

He knew his treatment to be second rateHis grave an unmarked Dixie plate.

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“High Seas” Jordan Paulk, ‘13 mixed media 36

A Calling Taylor Moore, ‘12

In the distance, I hear the clouds walking.

Their booming footsteps warn of coming rain.

Another listen, and whips of wind are calling, And it sounds like my favorite Psalm.

In the storm, I shout and say, “Help. Just help, because I can’t be The person who I want to be, Like your Son who set me free.”

In His silence, the storm continues— A stream of rain, a crash of light.

But the winds will pass, the clouds can clear.

So again I whisper, now understanding, “Help, please help. I want to be The peaceful soul you meant for me.

Only you can set me free.”

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Cinderella, Darling Daly Miller, ‘12

She mumbled and grumbled, All the while scrubbing and shoving Her slovenly sisters’ mountains of clothes And bows and socks Into one giant box.

She groaned and moaned, Desperately hoping and wishing that she could Just go to the ball when- POOF and SWISHAnd there she was with just a lick of the wrist!

She swirled and twirled, Suddenly magical and marvelous In her cerulean chiffon While tears of happiness and surprise Glistened in the young maid’s eyes.

Fairy Godmother, fantastic and bombastic Gave a “Bippity” and a “Boppity” and “Boo!” And there was the most glamorous pair of shoes!

Cinderella’s jaw dropped to the loor.

“Be back before midnight,” Godmother called from the door.

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“Cultured” Mary Shannon Wells, ‘13 digital photo illustration 39

Finding Friendship in the Jungle Hannah Little, ‘13

The grey skort and blue button-down shirt lie lifeless on my bed. The grey saddle oxfords and new white socks are on the loor waiting for my feet to slide into them. I’m standing looking at this new uniform that I must wear every day of the week from now until I graduate from my new school, UMS-Wright. I hear my mom bellowing from the end of the hallway.

“Are you ready, yet?”

In my head I scream, “NO! And I’m never going to be ready!”

However, in response I simply say, “No ma’am, but almost.” The inevitable has come, and I must get dressed in this new uniform and face the irst day of school.

As we approach the Middle School building, the butter lies in my stomach multiply. I don’t know whether I should cry, scream, or just throw up.

A little voice inside my head tells me, “Relax. Just be yourself.

They will like you, and everything will be just ine.” I decide that I have no choice but to listen to my little voice. I take a couple of deep breaths, tell my mother goodbye, and enter the massive building.

The stark, white walls and smell of cleaning solution greet me as I cross the threshold. The hallway in front of me appears to be at least three miles long, and with each step it seems to get longer. I walk past a group of boys standing beside a row of lockers, and they all stare because I’m the new kid. I pass a clique of girls, and I quickly decide they must be the popular cheerleaders with their perfect skin, perfect teeth, and perfect hair. I can feel their eyes looking me up and down, already judging me. I ind my locker, get my books for the irst class, and stand around waiting for 7:45.

Finally, the bell rings, and the chaotic jungle transforms into a sea of blue shirts lowing in orderly currents toward the classrooms’ open doors. I ind my irst class, bravely walk in, but my momentary 40

courage fails when I realize that I know no one. This is going to be a long day of walking into seven different classrooms and realizing each time exactly how alone I am. I take another deep breath as the teacher instructs us to take a seat anywhere we choose. Quickly, I move to the back of the room thinking maybe I can hide back there where no one will bother me. Of course, my refuge is leeting because the teacher then begins to assign seats. I say a little prayer to myself that I won’t end up on the front row; however, my prayer goes unanswered as I am placed front and center. I feel like prey with twenty predators eyeing my every move, and this is just the irst class of the day. What if this happens in every class? Will I be strong enough to survive this middle school jungle?

By lunchtime, four classes are behind me. I have endured half of the day, so surely the other three classes can’t be so bad. But, before I can ind out what lies ahead of me, I must undergo lunch. At my previous school, we all ate together as a class with our teacher inside of the cafeteria. However, I am faced with a new decision as seats are unassigned and students are free to roam between the lunchroom and courtyard outside: Do I eat inside the cafeteria or outside in the courtyard? Where do the “cool kids” eat? Are places already saved? Is there an unwritten seating assignment that has been passed down for years? Do I dare sit somewhere that I might not belong?

These questions and concerns spin inside of my head. Why can’t I be like an ostrich and just bury my head in the sand until the danger, and the day, fade away? My worries prove to be pointless as the cafeteria tables are full of carefree people eating and laughing, discussing the summers they probably spent together. I go outside to the courtyard, unwilling to approach anyone. I panic. There seem to be no seats there either. But then, as if a heavenly light assists me, I spy a girl sitting by herself. I even recognize her from some of my classes. Now, more questions ill my mind: Do I go over and ask if I can sit with her?

Will she reject me?

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Yet, tired of the fears and doubts in my head, I raise my chin, raise the down-turned corners of my lips into a smile, and go over to talk to her.

As I approach her, she begins to cower a little, like a hermit crab backing into its shell. I introduce myself, and she immediately relaxes. She invites me to join her, and I ind out that this is her irst day at UMS too. We share irst day horror stories and reminisce about our old schools. We discover that we like the same books, music, and movies. We also learn that we have all three classes after lunch together. What a different it makes knowing that a familiar face will be in each of those classes! Even though we aren’t assigned seats next to each other, it is comforting to know that we are facing this jungle together.

I learn two important lessons on my irst day at UMS-Wright.

I discover that I should always be con ident in myself despite my insecurities or fears of rejection. Also, I now know that in order to have a friend, I have to be a friend. If I had not opened up and introduced myself at lunch, I would have missed out on the best friendship I could ever know.

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“Drake” Madeleine Boudreaux, ‘12 acrylic

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“Still Waters” Catherine Hannahan, ‘12 digital photo ilustration

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Humanity in Music Victoria Mitchell, ‘13

Music ills the air. Deep, layered beauty rings out.

The luscious tone of the basses resonates within you, Serving as the foundation of the sumptuous sound to come.

Melli luous and clear, the tenors loat above, giving the song new vitality.

Pushing from the chest, the altos introduce a new strength to support the arrangement.

Last, the sopranos rise above all, ringing like bells in full bravado, completing the orchestration.

Though each part may stand alone, together they culminate into an over lowing richness, Penetrating the spirit with springs of abundant joy or spells of somber despair.

A powerful silence is achieved in the understated beauty of mezzo piano, Contrasting the blasting force and sheer power of fortissimo.

Beauty is found in the notes and rests of music, But the voices bring it to life.

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“Nature’s Creation” Beth McFarland, ‘14 watercolor 46

Morning Musing Daly Miller, ‘12

Lying on the cool, tall grass, I feel the dew’s moisture seeping slowly into my clothes and skin. A small sigh of appreciation escapes me as I look up at the ancient being rising above and beyond me. This incredible spirit, this awe-inspiring life brings me to silence. All I can do is stare in wonderment at its dark, gnarled trunk rising into the sky. Following its grooves, knots, and sinews, my eyes reach its arms spread out openly as if embracing the sky. Green leaves quiver from the wind’s sweet breath, aching for the sun’s kiss. I can imagine on the darkest of nights that this celestial spirit comes alive and shakes loose its stiff joints, stretches its arms down and sideways. If this being could speak, I wonder what it would say. After decades of silently watching us in our hurried, scattered motions, what life-changing words of absolute wisdom could it bestow upon us?

Or would it choose to remain silent?

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“Dark Bloom” Madeleine Boudreaux, ‘12 acrylic 48

The Understory

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“Contortionist” Lauren Harris, ‘13 digital photo illustration 50

Nightsweats Haley Johnston, ‘14

Night after night The black closes in, Growing tighter and tighter.

Running, leeing, trying to escape, I know the blackness isn’t far behind, So I run towards the unknown, But each step holds me back instead of driving me forward.

Hope slowly drifts away; All of my fears of life, death, and uncertainty Weigh me down.

Only seconds before the blackness engulfs me, The pain of the world becomes apparent; It has me in its grasp.

I struggle to be free of the darkness, Of the nothingness.

And then I see the faint outline of a twisted sheet, Of sprawled limbs and the white ceiling.

Panting, trembling in a puddle of sweat, Confused and disillusioned from the chase, I now wait out the remainder of the night, Avoiding the unconscious reality, Avoiding another nightmare.

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“Dinner for Six” Hannah Hashimi, ‘12 digital photo illustration 52

Imitation Gabby Chavez, ‘13

Here’s the problem with the world today: People only take and imitate.

No ponder, no wonder, No whimsical thought, Just copy and paste The words– they’re just bought.

So please, heed my advice– Abandon the plain, the prearranged And write the words to your own life.

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“Feral Gaze” Genevieve Clavel, ‘12 acrylic 54

Complaints of a Murderer Avery Day, ‘12

I sit and bemoan these stingy portions.

Oh, you vile, putrid lump!

You stare haughtily back at me. Everyday I see you and everyday my loathing grows expanding - consuming things inedible.

Eight years and counting...

The spoons and forkfuls of sludge that have passed through my cracked lips.

All because I took my hactchet to the DMV.

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A Hidden Life Fallon Reedy, ‘13

Weak, fragile, small: these common misconceptions assigned to us at irst glance only act as a catalyst to work ourselves harder, Make ourselves stronger, And push ourselves further.

To the common eye, all that’s seen is an insigni icant creature, But to the trained eye, there is far more.

Within the creature lies in inite titles, each adding layers of strength and importance.

L Working endlessly to build our community and home, we always strive for perfection, stability, and protection from the cruelty of the world. Rest is a stranger. Forever enduring, we are never overcome by idleness.

P Gathering anything useful, we constantly try to gain as much nutrition as possible, not only for ourselves, but for our powerful queen.

We supply her and our community with food and shelter in order to secure protection from starvation and threats from the world above.

P Hunting secretly and subtly, we use our numbers to overtake prey ten, a hundred, a thousand times our size. Our methods may be savage, but we must provide for our nation. We act to preserve our own.

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C Fighting as one, we gather to build our empires and homes. With the determination, we help one another ful ill all the tasks necessary to the community’s survival and push each other to strive for perfection.

S Struggling day to day to endure the hardships of our life, we hide in order to evade the threats to our meager existence. What takes years to build can be destroyed in a moment. However, armed with our hidden skills, our populations outnumber those of man and possibly even the stars.

Yes, we can be seen through many lenses, But our appearance in your eyes will never change, You will always remain blind to our true identities.

To you, we are only ants.

“Termite Towers” Eileen Shepard, ‘12 digital photo illustration 57

Runaway's Lullaby Madeleine Samuels, ‘13

If I could escape and run away, Fly up high into midnight skies— All I know is I cannot stay.

Drift away from all dismay, Clear my head of all the lies— If I could escape and run away.

Leave monsters and demons at bay, Search the world for brand new ties— All I know is I cannot stay.

Sit here a while longer and pray, Stand up and say I’m not too shy— If I could escape and run away.

Leave the harbor of a safe bay, Breathe in and let out all of the sighs— All I know is I cannot stay.

I hope the days will fade away, When I never look back at tears and cries; If I could escape and run away— All I know is that I cannot stay.

“Gateway” Nell Milling, ‘13 digital photo illustration 58

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“Siren” Tori Fowler, ‘12 acrylic 60

Maurice

Mackenzie Pitcock, ‘13

I recall the day of my kidnapping vividly. I was just a chick hopping around in my glass room as all parakeets do at that age. Yet, all of a sudden, a face bigger than anything I’d ever seen peered into my room with its giant beady eyes.

I was shocked, to say the least. The sight of it was disgusting, and I averted my eyes hoping it would go away.

As I turned around, the giant started banging on the walls of my glass palace trying to get my attention. I ignored it as best as I could, but the beast was relentless, constantly banging and tapping and making an irritating ruckus. I turned around. As soon as I did, the monster shouted at me what I could only perceive as a battle cry. It sounded something like, “Polly wanna cracker?”

First of all, my name isn’t Polly. It’s Maurice. Secondly, what is a cracker and why would I want one? The monster kept repeating the phrase as though he wanted me to respond in some way, as though I was meant to mindlessly parrot his statement which would be completely ridiculous. Parakeets don’t mimic people. We’re bird royalty.

I decided that something must be done to this beast before he disrupted my peace any longer, but, alas, I was too young to have knights of my own, so I had to fend for myself. It was then that I knew what I had to do. I lew up from my post, displaying my inest ighting moves in an attempt to scare the beast.

It was exhausting, but my tiring exhibition paid off when the iend lew faster than a hummingbird out of sight. I returned to my throne, tired but proud of my ability to defend my kingdom.

Suddenly, I heard a strange noise coming from above, and before I knew what was happening, I felt some force lifting me up out of the room. Had I died? Was I going to Valhalla?

Reality came crashing down on me when I saw metal bars that surrounded me. I was captured. All the glory and honor I was to receive as parakeet king were replaced with the prospects of a prisoner.

This is the story of my birdnapping. My name is Maurice, prince of the parakeets, and I am being held ransom by an unknown giant. I’m not sure if I’ll ever escape or if I’ll live, but if anyone ever reads this, beware the featherless giants that lurk in our world.

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“Shifted Shadows” Kathleen McFarlane collagraph

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THE DREAMER AND THE BEGGAR Pete Blankenship, ‘12

One man sits on the stoop of the of ice building, Begging for coins to change his life.

Another works in the of ices above, looking down.

He eats half of his sandwich and throws it away While the beggar is starving day after day.

A long time ago, a young boy led a war-torn land.

A well-off man he would become, One who no longer recognizes the hurt and hunger he once knew.

Working in a glass tower so different from his childhood home, His forgetfulness makes him the subject of this poem.

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Almost Tom Taylor, ‘13

Andrew Luck was wandering through the dense forest loor on the tenth day of his safari. The loor was dark, and thick foliage obscured his vision in all directions. He had killed a panther, a magni icent predator, the day before so had become extremely arrogant; yet once in the forest alone, he felt slightly nervous and a bit paranoid.

Luck had ventured out without either one of his guides or his wife.

Armed with his ri le and his Winchester knife, he had been out since dawn, and now twilight was approaching with what seemed an unusual quickness. Luck had become lost a few hours before, and his previous con idence had begun to fade like the dimming sunlight.

He tried to reassure himself, “I don’t need any guides. I can ind my own way and kill my own trophies without anyone’s assistance.

I can ind my own way back with ease. I’m not lost, just a little… turned around. That’s all.”

Little did Luck know that he was being stalked. The mate of the black panther he had killed the day before was following close behind him. The panther’s piercing yellow eyes glowed in the surrounding darkness. His footsteps were as quiet as a whisper, and his black fur shielded him in the shadows like armor. His claws were sharp enough to slice through leather, and his tail lickered with a sinister swing. If Luck could have seen the beast’s face, it would have made a chill run down his spine. Even Death himself would hide from this monster.

Luck walked slowly through the brush, carefully taking each step as not to create any noise. His brow sweat profusely in the exasperating heat. His ield of vision was poor in the simmering light.

Suddenly, a soft but noticeable snap of a branch alerted Luck of the nearby danger. A sense of panic seized him; he felt his legs shake 64

and his lips tremble. Scanning his surroundings, he saw nothing. The forest loor was again as silent as a graveyard. A mist of fog loated across the ground, dampening the plants with dew. The silence gave way to the strange noises of the native animals. Then he saw straight in front of him the evil and despicable yellow eyes menacingly gliding through the edges of the brush. He heard the grumbling, guttural yowl rumbling as if laughter from a demon’s chest.

“The laugh, the laugh! Stop! I can’t handle it! Please STOP!” As if the cat were obeying him, the scream ceased. And, as if lightning had struck him, Luck sprinted through the jungle without looking back. Adrenaline lowed with the force of a river washing his veins and driving him forward into the dark unknown. His adversary was not far behind, however. For hours throughout the night, Luck hurled himself forward, dodging trees in the dark night. The panther toyed with the man, watching him stumble and weaken.

Luck inally stumbled into a clearing with a thick tree branch hanging in a “U” above him. He turned to listen for the animal. Hearing nothing, he was about to continue his escape, but as his eyes adjusted in the dark, Luck was labbergasted to see the panther sitting on the limb that hung from the canopy. Horri ied, he tripped over a root and began crawling toward the brush. Suddenly, he remembered his ri le. Luck grabbed for it on his back but found it was not there.

“Where could it have gone?” he exclaimed.

Unfortunately, Luck had dropped it in his wild, panicked run. It had slipped off his shoulder right before he had entered the clearing, so all he had now was his trusty Winchester knife —the same one he drove into the heart of this panther’s mate. He unsheathed it and stared into the panther’s eyes. Luck knew that there was no way out. He squatted down and prepared himself. The panther pounced on Luck with claws drawn and slashed for Luck’s neck.

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Luck solidly stabbed with the knife, and the cat’s screams echoed throughout the jungle as he bounded off into the brush. This was his only chance; Luck found a low limb, jumped, and began to climb. He was halfway up the second limb when the panther returned. Luck pushed himself up using his knife as a climbing tool.

The panther used its claws as climbing spikes. It caught up with Luck and jumped for his leg. Luck swung forward and laid a solid left foot into the face of the panther. The panther swiped at the foot and barely missed. The cat fell and dropped out of sight. Luck wasted no time. He climbed and climbed and climbed the tree using the vines and branches as footholds and pull-up bars. He was close to the canopy and could see the rising daylight. His wild light had lasted the night.

He thought, “Almost there. So close. If only I could grab this… last… branch.”

He jumped and fell short, beginning to fall, but caught himself with his knife on a quick recovery! He was above the canopy! He was going to… _________________________ The guides, Luck’s wife, and a week-long rescue team effort never found him. They found his gun near the opening of a wide clearing. In the opening, there were scratch marks all the way up the gnarled trunk of one of the trees. They followed the markings to the top of the canopy where they found Luck’s knife wedged into the last branch before the surface. It had a scratch mark next to it with a stain of dried blood.

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“Stunted Growth” Daniel Dzwonkowski, ‘14 watercolor 67

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Arduous Tasks Reid Black, ‘13

I look up as I feel the Sting of some harsh remark against my Ear, meeting the eyes of its generous donor.

And I turn away for just a moment, Which will, inevitably, morph into Some variation of a lifetime.

Pausing, I search myself, Helplessly diving down, down, and Reluctantly rising back up so as not to get too lost.

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I gasp as I break the surface of my Innermost self and focus on some place far away from The vacuum of the crowded room.

I consider the words - potent and few.

Rubbing my arms in discomfort, laboriously initiating an elaborate Mock funeral for a few ghostly invisibles.

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“Walkway” Kate Fowler, ‘13 digital photo illustration

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Argument Ellie Flock, ‘12

startle rattles scowl cowls enraged angered speak peaks silent listen

“Thank you, Chagall!”

Mary Catherine Pierce, ‘12 oil pastel 71

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Writer's Blocked Ellie Flock, ‘12 Immortality isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Yes, eternal youth, beauty, and strength are persuasive appeals, but the package of perpetuity doesn’t always include such attractive accessories. Deathlessness and everlasting life conjure up thoughts of heavenly peace, enduring fame, and never-ending joy.

We go unnoticed.

We are the poor souls trapped forever between the covers of books, never venturing beyond designated margins or plot lines. Immortality, for us, means repetition. It means re-experiencing terror, reliving loss, repeating regretfully hurtful words without the ability to edit our own actions. Our fates were decided by the scrawl of a pen and the printing of a book; we, the characters, had no say in the matter or choice concerning the outcomes of our respective novels. We were denied the experiences of molding our own characters; our very personalities were forced upon us with the help of character development how-to books or, in many cases, the absence of imagination.

We live in a bound and published world that is void of free will. Like an unwilling actor chained to an unchangeable script, never moving forward or backward outside of the con ines of the title page to the ending punctuation, never changing dialogue, we run the same story again and again. The same set sequence of incidents and loods of emotion made boring and repulsive by repetition. After four hundred and ifty years of being read, impersonated, and quoted, Romeo and Juliet now look forward to suicide. When given more than a few days together, they realized that their personalities clashed. Their love was leeting infatuation, making every confession of love tedious and repulsive, yet unavoidable considering the popularity of Shakespeare’s infamous tragedy.

Jonathan Harker inds himself imprisoned within the dusty fortress of Castle Dracula and nearly losing his life to its bloodsucking host each time a reader peruses Bram Stoker’s gothic novel. Gregor Samsa must arise to the terror of inding himself transformed into a hideous bug again and again in Franz Ka ka’s The Metamorphosis.

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Some characters are luckier than others. In Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar, the little green worm gets to guzzle fruits and snacks all day, and instead of learning a lesson about gluttony, he turns into a beautiful butterly. No harm comes to him; no horrors plague his plotted pages.

Please, for our sakes, be consistent when it comes to starting a novel.

When you stop halfway through and forget about our book, we’re trapped.

We don’t even have the satisfaction of completing the our job but are stuck in idle limbo until we are remembered. Also, Sparknotes are completely unacceptable. How are we to be expected to speed through our own lives so quickly and patchily? Think of how offensive you’re being! You’re basically conveying to us, the patient characters, that we aren’t worth your time.

Our point is not to ask you to stop reading. If our books aren’t being read, we’re stuck in a state of comatose boredom. Any action is better than none at all, and our animation stems from the turning of pages. However, be limited in your obsessive reading of books. If you like the characters, don’t share them with anyone. Read our stories sparingly to keep us both active and interested, and, whatever you do, don’t let anyone write a book, short story, or narrative about YOU.

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“Eat a Peach” Leigh Higby, ‘13 acrylic and pastel 75

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The Beginning of Wisdom Daly Miller, ‘12

“Count down from ten.”

10, 9, 8, 7... dark. beep... Beep... beep.

I open eyes to feel a throbbing mouth.

I don’t feel all that wise now.

“Adrift” Madeleine Boudreaux, ‘12 acrylic on canvas 77

Mr. Bluebird Ann Claire Carnahan, ‘14

My father’s music was strung out of promises.

He had a habit of annoying my mother’s busy ingers each night with his long-winded piano compositions.

Father would beat upon the smooth teeth, as Mama shook her head and huffed over the sweet notes.

“That man,” she told my sister as I picked carrots out of the simmering

“Simon! The neighbors must think our cat is dying!” My mother groaned.

He only sang louder.

But I do not remember the words. I know Rebekkah laughed, though. Maybe because she understood.

Maybe because she didn’t.

“Arg!” Mama grumbled, slapping my sticky hands with a nearby towel so that I would drop the potatoes

dinner dish. “He assures me of too much.”

Rebekkah would simply continue with the sewing swirling between her tiny hands whilst laughing in between Papa’s distinct banging.

At the age of eleven, I didn’t understand much of this interaction other than that Papa was too obnoxious to take outside the house and that he could not sing as well as mother could cook. And, that the vegetables were always the best part of her meals.

wrapped within them. Then, she continued to the adjacent room with her weapon.

Papa’s voice rose.

“You are as annoying as a hyper bird!”

“In that my voice is beautiful?” he yelled, interrupting the song’s easy rhythm.

“In that you don’t know when to stop!”

Rebekkah inished off her sewn yellow star, but she did not have enough red thread left to tie the inal knot. The 78

limsy red strand reminded me of Nellie Amsel, a girl with permanently plaited, beautiful hair that was knotted off with bright pink and red bows. I used to give her candies after class. Now that I wasn’t allowed to go to school, she could no longer look me in the eyes.

“Honestly,” Mama began again, before Papa’s soaring syllables hit her so hard she almost tumbled backward.

I stuffed two potato pieces in my mouth, tasting mostly salt and thyme.

My mother’s practiced chicanery with herbs and spices hid the uncharacteristic limpness of the vegetables.

My sister picked up her next template and began again while my ingertips burned from the hot steam of the prohibited fry pan.

“You silly goose,” Mama inally sighed, after losing her battle against the slick-footed, well-rehearsed sounds.

Their nightly routine was so familiar to my older sister and me that surely we could repeat their blithe banter word for word. Despite her protestations, mother really did love the serenity offered by his silly melodies.

On cue, she sat beside my father, on our shaky, worn-out wooden bench. He wrapped a loose arm around her waist in order to pull her close while one hand continued on with a solo.

I ate day-old bread and watched Papa’s shirt untuck. Mama laughed as he continued with his drabbles about catching something magni icent. The

words, a nonsensical adaptation of Grandpa’s old fairytales, were peaceful and calming in their familiarity.

My parents both looked younger, then, as if Papa was somehow skipping backwards through time by reminding his wife of all his original promises.

F sharp.

I will always love you.

E. I will provide for you, even if I lose everything.

B ϔlat.

I will never lie to you.

C. If you leave, I will follow.

D. To me, you are perfect.

F sharp.

Of course, at the time, I did not recognize any of the unspoken lyrics re lected in Mama’s smile. I saw this only as an imposition prolonging the empty feeling in my stomach.

Dinner was on the stove and deserved to be on the table.

So, as Rebekkah inished her irst triangle point, I wandered over and weaseled myself between them. Mama kissed my head and Papa laughed in the middle of his sentence.

That’s the most vivid part of this entire memory of mine: Mama’s lipstick in my hair and Papa’s belt jabbing my side.

Up close, the keys on our instrument looked much more yellow than white, but beneath my father’s touch they generated pure magic.

Mother’s apron under my hand, warm from sizzling provisions, 79

tethered me to reality, as the whimsical music threatened to lift me away with it.

Papa was a professional pianist or “key dancer” as he liked to call himself, but at the majority of his exhibitions, those lips of his remained stapled. The notes sang for themselves.

With music, I think he could make anyone believe anything.

His spells certainly worked on me.

So, in that moment, I forgot about the simmering food as Rebekkah dropped her sewing. My and my sister’s voices stumbled along with our father in the lead.

Mama kept smiling.

I don’t know what happened afterwards.

We might have danced or kept singing or maybe even eaten. And maybe my parents kissed. But the actual ending to this little instance in my life story is dark to me.

I like to ill in the empty spaces in my own mind, though, to brighten my grim reality with happier times by rewriting part of my past with fantasy.

To be honest, I never even considered that my father’s promises of undying love would ever be of consequence to me. The memory was stuffed away along with faint lickering of family birthdays and holidays and old favorite pets.

In a different world, in an alternate universe where I grew up properly, I might have forgotten it entirely.

Perhaps we could have all sung it together again, like the bluebirds nested outside our east windows: clumped together, whistling pretty notes that

were never quite in sync.

Once upon a time, in a correct, happy life.

But in my current reality, I march.

Then run.

Some monster is yelling.

A different, smaller one is barking.

It is snowing. Or, at least, I think it is. I am mostly sure that is the reason my ingers are black and my feet wet.

The wind does not feel like knives against my face. It is smoother, like liquid ire.

But we keep sprinting, with the demons parallel to our fallen company.

The bottom half of my skeleton is moving, pushing me forward in some way that I do not fully understand, even when I feel dread threatening to slow my steps as it seeps through all of my bones.

They are still yelling.

“Faster!”

I know what was spoken, but it seems foreign at the same time, a language of another world.

The wind seems to be ripping my brain apart piece by piece as the ice deteriorates my entire exterior.

How am I supposed to force my rotting muscles any further?

And even if I could, to what end?

Everything is beginning to stop working…

Agony grips me.

F sharp.

I remember my father’s promises.

E. My body presses on without any commands.

B ϔlat.

My mind detaches.

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C. I feel my mama’s smile in my hair.

D. Papa’s elbow tickles my side.

F sharp.

The lyrics are fuzzy in the forefront of my mind, but I know the melody without the slightest of doubt.

The lower hand maintained a steady beat as its higher companion litted quickly in a confusing symphony of sharp beats. I am aware of only tempo and harmony. I can no longer hear the thick footsteps of the beasts.

The song is so loud in my head that, to me, it feels as if it is spilling out of my ears and melting the snow that slaps at my eyelids.

The striking sounds fall into step with my body’s movements.

The carrots tasted warm.

Hunger falls out of my stomach to be trampled by the lines and lines of men that followed behind me.

Rebekkah inished her stitched star.

I think that I feel the sun reclaiming its kingdom up above, but I cannot be sure.

Papa dragged Mama back to a more carefree time.

Fresher, more rested colleagues replace the beasts.

Mama laughed.

The new ones reassure everyone of something. Of nothing. Of everything.

The meal was forgotten.

We’re nearing Gleiwitz!”

F sharp.

I can envision Papa perfectly.

E. I wish I knew if he had joined the

sun up above, yet.

B ϔlat.

I consider what would happen if I stopped singing and fell. I wonder if death would welcome me.

C. The melody continues anyway. As do my legs.

D. We arrive.

Brutes are barking.

Angels are trying to whisper Papa’s lyrics to me, but I cannot hear them through the thick fog of silence as I am forced down on top of other men.

We will not all it in this one bunker.

Regardless, the brutes force in more skinny, wilting men.

We should not it, but we do, stacked in a mound of sickly lesh and lackluster breaths.

Memories and the taste of death demolish sleep.

F sharp.

And then I hear birds singing.

Or, I think I do, as bodies build up around me.

But I like to pretend the music was my papa, upsetting the neighbors and warming my mother’s heart.

“Day’s End” Eileen Shephard, ‘12 digital photo illustration 81

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“Valley Below” Kate Fowler, ‘13 digital photo illustrastion 83

Lady Macbeth

Anna Van Der Wood, ‘14

Begone, life, Quit my weary heart, Remove the light which casts my walking shadow.

This poor player shall act no more The design of another.

Henceforth, I chart a novel course of my own imagination, A play written from the grave.

Cap the candle, the dusty tales of yesterdays Have convinced me— No longer shall I endure the fear of tomorrow Or the petty pace tread.

My own acts I shall perform; My deathbed a scene it for any.

When my last syllables are breathed, They shall fade unrecorded, unmarked By those they held in such high regard.

The sound and fury shall be silenced With the highest of intensity, The iercest of hatreds.

When my hour is done, I shall rejoice ne’er to be heard more.

I will be joyous of the cessation, The end to my ramblings.

And I should die Unloved, unmissed, unmourned.

My death shall be peace yet to me, But to those I love, miss, and mourn It will be suicidal idiocy “Losing Lines” Signifying nothing.

Mary Shannon Wells, ‘13 Speak.

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digital photo illustration

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“Unnamed Victim” Dailey Dexter, ‘12 digital photo illustration

“The Boxer” Matthew Yoder, ‘12 wire sculpture 86

TRAPPED Drake Shelton, ‘12

“This is where boys become men,” I wearily think to myself. “This is crunch time.” The other team has scouted our weaknesses before the game even started. They’ve probably discussed how number 22 has issues with 3-point shots, is a sub-par dribbler, and doesn’t always make the best decisions under pressure. They know they can trap me.

I have two options. I can try to dribble around these goliaths and score a lay-up without getting tripped or letting one of them steal the ball, or I can pass out of the trap if one of my teammates can get open and save me from this dismal situation.

I don’t have time to think. It begins! The trap is upon me before I can consider either option. I am suffocated by the foul smell of these two apes wildly raising and lowering their arms in front of me. The yells of the crowd, my teammates, and my coach overwhelm me. The goal and any open player seem so far away. As I look for an opening, all I see is bright blue, the other team’s jersey color, as my team seems to have vanished.

Now, no matter what choice I make, I know it will be the wrong one.

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“Drawn to a Flame” Eileen Shepard, ‘12 digital photo illustration

The Plight of William Hendrick Jordan Curtis, ‘13

St. Dire Street was enveloped in darkness, nearly invisible save for the glow of the half-hidden moon and the luorescent light shining from William Hendrick’s small apartment. William sat at his desk, head supported by his hands and pen laid atop a single sheet of paper. William sighed heavily and looked once again at the page. Blank.

Unable to muster the inspiration to begin the novel he always dreamed of writing, the empty canvas of an artist’s soon-to-be masterpiece was this foreboding span of paper which seemed to

mock and belittle his every attempt at literary success.

Scrambling for inspiration, William closed his eyes and envisioned the image he had long ago forced from his thoughts forever. It was Catherine Summers and the manner in which she carried herself as she gracefully approached him clothed in an almost angelic white dress, the gleam of her deep blue eyes, and the trembling of her hands as they exchanged embraces.

Suddenly, almost entirely at once, the intensity of his loneliness hit him.

The memory came next: he felt the impact of the truck colliding into his small sedan in the middle of the busy intersection. He could hear the blaring of sirens, see the overwhelming brightness of the lashing lights as he watched 88

the paramedics take her from him for the last time.

Will opened his eyes and looked down to his trembling hands. The lump that had formed in his throat was impossible to remove as he attempted to breathe steadily. All at once, he stood and walked to the window, holding the pen in his hand.

The only sights were the bakery across the road and the many other shops that littered the sidewalks of his street, yet he was unable to see them; the streetlights had all blown out long before, and no one ever thought to ix them.

He thought of his childhood in Carmel, many miles from his current home on the outskirts of Cleveland, and of the familiarity he had with his hometown.

He never once needed to ask for directions in Carmel, even as he wandered the many streets in the small town. If only that was the case as he stood at the window and stared out into the unfamiliar darkness.

The walls of his apartment seemed to close in on him, and he needed fresh air. However, he knew not what lay outside his home, and because the vast city clothed in darkness overwhelmed him, he lacked the willingness to leave.

Will had never seen the other inhabitants of St. Dire Street, but he knew they were there as he had heard a couple talking in the late hours of the night in the apartment above him. Though aware of his fellow occupants of the remote and run-down street, Will had never felt more alone.

The isolation Will currently felt with society was once a situation he had inten89

tionally sought, hoping it would serve as a muse for his writing, but it only allowed his mind to wander and eventually come to the realization that he was not the man he hoped he would become. He was quite the opposite of a literary icon, being truthfully an uninspired, alienated man with an unhealthy desire for success.

For hours at a time each night, Will strove to write stories that would be appreciated by modern culture, but in the end he would always succumb to failure, leaving a single white page lying atop his desk.

Will turned from the window and walked back to his desk. He sat and placed his hand beside the paper, pen poised and prepared to write. He ran the inked tip against the page, spilling ink in sentences the way an artist would paint a canvas, and wrote as he never thought possible.

Past pleasures and pains joined within his mind as he poured his consciousness onto the page, and suddenly stopped. He was inished.

His eyes scanned the lines he had composed multiple times. He analyzed each word, sentence, and line, and, realizing the reality and truth throughout his work, tore the page to pieces. The young man threw the pen across the room, and stood up forcing his chair violently into the desk, knocking pictures and memorabilia to the loor.

As the lamp he hurled cracked against the blunt solidity of the wall, the lights inally left St. Dire Street, leaving the long-abandoned shops and homes that surrounded William Hendrick in complete darkness.

Capture

Gabby Chavez, ‘13

I remember the night it happened, the night I was taken. I igured I had just imagined the shadow outside my window, and I labeled myself as paranoid after I jumped when I heard leaves rustling.

“Just a cat,” I thought, reassuring myself.

Oh, how foolish I was. How naïve. I should’ve known then, but I guess you don’t believe what you don’t want to be true. Or at least, you refuse it until you can’t deny it any more. I pulled the white curtains closed and tiptoed out of bed. The old oak loors groaned as I walked across them and down the steps to feel the lock and make sure the door was secure. The blinking red light told me that the alarm was set and undisturbed. I felt calmer after that, as if a wedge of metal and a computer-controlled siren could keep me safe. My mother and father were in San Francisco, and my sister had gone back to college the weekend before, leaving it to just me.

Alone.

He knew that, too. He knew that I would be alone.

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That night it was quiet. There were no cars speeding down the normally busy street, and it was the rare occasion that the house next door wasn’t hosting a party. It was the silence that made me hear it. The “tap, tap, tap” behind me.

I froze.

Tap. Tap. Tap again.

“A tree?” I offered. “Scraping against the window? Walk.” I told myself, but I couldn’t move.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound grew louder, and in a nervous rage I turned around and yelled, “What? What could you possibly want? You’re a tree!”

I wasn’t prepared to see it, but there it was.

“Hello” was scribbled in the condensation on the window. I stood there, mouth agape. My chest tightened, and my hands slowly began to tremble. It couldn’t be possible.

It was useless to struggle against the iron grip that encased me from behind, one hand over my mouth, the other pinning my motionless arms to my side. He had been watching, waiting for so long that he would never let me go now that he inally had me. After years of forcing my family to another city, branding them with new names, and creating for us a hidden life, he still found me. He caught me when I inally felt safe.

And, now, I’m gone.

“Knot 1” & “Knot 2” Genevieve Clavel, ‘12 conté crayon and charcoal 91

“Ravaging Rain” Kate Fowler, ‘13 digital photo illustration

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Abyss

Madeleine Samuels, ‘13

The cool salty blue burns as it ills my lungs.

Arms splayed, grappling for the smallest hope Vision blurred, searching for an escape No up, no down, no left, no right I’m sinking deeper and deeper.

Body failing, hope barely buoying me up A pounding like steady war drums— Thump, thump, thump, thump.

My ears feel the growing pressure around me.

Motions prove futile, driving me further into despair.

I have to keep ighting.

I cannot give up!

But I grow weaker as the surface shrinks away Leaving only fading ripples where I once drew breath, And life is slowly slipping from my grip.

Then, the salt doesn’t seem to burn anymore, And the drums fade into the distance, like the sound of footsteps, Thum, thum, thum.

The glistening water looks like the twinkling of stars.

I loat instead of sink.

Muscles begin to relax, surrendering in the ight.

Eyes close, as if giving in to a deep sleep.

She eases the pain and the sorrow; She welcomes me into her arms; Mother Ocean burying me in her watery embrace.

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To a Futile Fantasy Annie Marston, ‘13

Eyes that stir anxiety within; Insecurity in its truest obscenity Discerning the fabric of my feeble spectrum, exposing actuality.

Judgment falls in a leaden downpour.

For such improbable windows of invitation, I lust.

Lips that neglect to falter, Withholding praises that would deliver security.

Your very words, savored by my emaciated ear, Reassure and compliment.

For the ability to satisfy my malnourished marrow, I lust.

Your embrace would be salvation.

A stature that protects and shields from harsh glances— Physically blockading unforgiving reality, Allowing a relieving illusion of acceptance.

For your ability to create calmness by mere contact, I lust.

All unattainable.

All unattainable.

A useless and petty delusion.

Ridiculous- the very thought That I could ever have you.

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“Contemplation” Matthew Yoder, ‘12 oil painting 95

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Truth

Avery Day, ‘12

Truth tastes like a mouthful that is too big to swallow whole.

She is often biting and cruel, like the winter wind Bringing goose bumps and chill to your body.

Truth is a recluse, often staying in the back of her caveAway from the mouth.

“Road Vomit” Casey Barrett, ‘13 marker and pen 97

Faked

Avery Day, ‘12

Sneaking, hiding, lurking In every purse, pocket, and bag Such a psychotic ritual we women have.

Insecure, ugly, naked— We judge and we disapprove and we criticize.

But why? We’re all the same.

Foundation, blush, liner, Shadow, mascara, gloss— Parading across our faces, masking what’s underneath.

Jealousy Avery Day, ‘12

Jealousy chews on bitter nutshells Munching on shards loudly, angrily.

He wears green, a sickly shade like wilted spinach, Always following you around, springing up like a weed From stores of insecurity and unhappiness.

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“Moss Man” Hunter Seale, ‘12 mixed media 99

First Born Ellie Flock, ‘12

I never understood love until he came into my life.

First, he was a wish, Then a decision, Happy news to tell his father, Grandmother, grandfather, Aunt, godmother, uncle.

He was a fuzzy picture on a monitor screen.

He was, “It’s a boy!”

A kick, a painful stretch, a no more sleeping on my side.

He was waking pains between dusk and dawn.

Then he was in my arms, and I knew love.

It came from some deep God-well within my heart, Within our hearts. He was as much our beginning as we were his.

Our lives wrapped themselves around him.

Our present meant to create his future.

For a perfect son, Christmas traditions, Birthday bliss, Seeing him learn to swim. Watching him learn his own re lection.

Growing from crib to bed, from bike to car.

He was the creation of our love. The joy.

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Yet, the forward motion of our hope and protection was redirected By his own decisions.

He sought the darkness beyond us.

He found the fake light of an addictive high.

The wild look in the eyes that mirrored his father’s in shape and color.

How had this happened?

How? How? Why. What did we do? All our hopes and plans…

We wanted him to be happy, be greater, be better than us.

Yet he chose to kill himself in seeking a false light.

Staring at the cof in that now holds his body Surrounding it the way mine once Held him.

Safe.

“Just A Drop” Taylor Moore, ‘12 digital photo illustration 101

In the Light Will Edwards, ‘13

In the light, I see the truth, The truth that frames corruption, The corruption that creates havoc in society, The society that I live in today.

In the light, I see the mistakes, The mistakes made by crude intentions, The intentions that ill society, The society I live in today.

In the light, I see the fruits, The fruits that all have bruises, The bruises created by corruption in society, The society I live in today.

In the light, I envision a dream, A dream that reveals my thought, A thought that would heal society, The society I live in today.

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“The Whole World” Casey Barrett, ‘13 marker and pen 103

“Hope on the Horizon” Madeleine Boudreaux, ‘12 acrylic 104

Truth

Schaeffer Lersch

Day by Day Hour by Hour Moment to Moment I am locked away, hidden from all Deep within a pandoric prison Forged by disgrace, shame, fear, Constructed upon shifting sands of secrets.

The foundation feels irm at irst, But quickly crumbles under the burden Of my constant companion, a guilty conscience With whom lies combat.

Guilt is my wol ish brother Who hides behind a mask with no color.

Lying, luring, leading me Through a downward spiral To a spidery jail.

There you wait, shackled by your own deception Until I am released. As a savior, I loosen you from sadness and suffering, Ful illing my destiny to set you free.

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Redeeming Resurrection Bronson Wessinger, ‘13

He who is worthy of Heaven and more Was coldly cast to the forest loor.

Sinners of the Earth merely stood by As their King was stoned. They watched him die.

After three days on this dark and lonely loor, The fallen martyr began to rise, to soar.

He took with him in this righteous light Those he deemed worthy of heavenly light.

Through his pain and sel less cruci ixion Jesus opened for us a pathway to redemption.

“End of the Tunnel” Andy Morrow, ‘12 watercolor 106

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“After the Storm” Daly Miller, ‘12 digital photo illustration 108

Stop and Look Page Hoffmeyer, ‘13

Climbing, , g n i p m u J nt of us o r f Running, n i ’s t a toward wh ly d e wind n h i t l f b o e l e l b t s m i h We scra n to the w e t s i l o t g haltin trees. e h t f o Instead of g n i trees, e s e and creak h t , m o with wisd d e g a n ced life a n m e i d r l e o p n x e a Like ined, have w t r e t n i d n e light.

Cracked a h t d e h c a e and r

With this generation gu ided by impulse rather than reason, All collide and overlook what might be right ne xt to us.

And then, with our child ren, we will start all ov er again with The running, The jumping, The climbing.

Going nowhere. , en to stop r d l i h c r u e teach o But can w e breeze, h t o t n e t s i To l past, e h t m o r f is stories, h d n a to learn n a o the old m sive mistakes, t n r future? e t u s i o l e o u T l l a u v p d om his im reserve an p o t , s i h To learn fr t ith all of w , e b y a m And

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Parting Words Selections from the Class of 2012 Baccalaureate and Graduation Commencement “As I stand before each of you, I feel that we should look back on our days at UMS-Wright with admiration and thanks. Though time has quickly passed, we have achieved a variety of different strides. I wish my classmates the best of luck on our various paths, and I can only imagine the success that will come our way as we encounter the future.”

—Lauren Russell, Yearbook Editor “Winston Churchill reminds us, ‘We make a living by what we get; we make a life by what we give.’ My UMS-Wright faculty and family have taught me that we can use our blessings to bene it others, and the ability to serve others is the greatest gift in life.”

—Ellie Flock, Vivian W. Rainer Award for Excellence Recipient “Now as we move forward, we can take a look back at what we’ve done and wonder if it means anything. Is running a bean bag toss, building a levy that may not even still exist, and clearing a path that must be cleared again each year our legacy? I submit no. I say our legacy is that we solved problems, we built to protect, and we cleared a path for others to follow in our footsteps. We are the Class of 2012—a class of problem solvers.”

—Drew Harvey, G. Sage Lyons, I Memorial Award Recipient “While it is important to reminisce about the accomplishments that we have earned, I would rather spend our reunions laughing with old friends over shared frustrations and the camaraderie that grew from our joined efforts to survive unforgiving tests and deadlines than remember how much scholarship we received as a class.”

—Hannah Hashimi, Honor Council President

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“At our last senior class meeting, Principal Ed Lathan handed down Lathan’s Law. Because of the time of year, I was surprised to hear what Lathan’s Law really was, as I and many other classmates were thinking it was surely going to be something involving our upcoming Senior Prank Day. Much to my surprise, Lathan’s Law is far from this and is quite simple, but its meaning and signi icance has far greater impact. On the last day of school, Lathan’s Law requires that every senior boy shake his father’s hand and every senior girl hug her mother’s neck and thank them for sending us to this school and encouraging us along the way. This leadership inspires us to perform to the best of our ability and achieve all that we have here at UMS and beyond, but more importantly, reminds us to humbly thank those who have given us so much.”

—Travis Goodloe, Salutatorian “If we are to succeed in spirit, we too must maintain an iron will to discipline ourselves in the real world. That’s not to say that we won’t ever falter or make any mistakes, but what is vital is that we learn from them and keep moving forward to achieve this goal whether in the form of a sluggish crawl or a trampling march, never halting and never ever retreating...

I have great con idence that we will prevail by properly putting to use the enormous talent, tenacity, and altruism I’ve seen in all of you for the last six years. ” —Pranav Bethala, Valedictorian

“Strong Start” “Strong Start” ‘12 Hannah Hashimi, Hannah ‘12 digital photoHashimi, illustrastion digital photo illustration 111

Artistic Index EMERGENT

“Vantage Point,” Leigh Higby ......................................................................................................... V “Perched,” Haley Horn...................................................................................................................... 2 “Practice, Practice,” Claire Kennedy ........................................................................................... 5 “First Dance,” Matthew Yoder ....................................................................................................... 6 “Innocence,” Matthew Yoder ......................................................................................................... 8 “Fanned Fronds,” Luke Dunaway...............................................................................................10 “Skyward Branch,” Kendall Baker .............................................................................................12 “Pursuing Rays,” Claire Kennedy ...............................................................................................15 “Flutter 1,2 &3 ,” Eileen Shepard .......................................................................................... 16-7

CANOPY

“Source of Life,” Madeleine Boudreaux...................................................................................18 “Bamboozled,” D’Anre Smith .......................................................................................................20 “Self Portrait,” Hunter Seale ........................................................................................................25 “Twinkle,” Eileen Shepard ............................................................................................................26 “Childhood Memories,” Genevieve Clavel ..............................................................................29 “Childhood Memories 2,” Genevieve Clavel ..........................................................................30 “Max Masks Bouquet,” Tori Fowler...........................................................................................33 “Peak-A-Boo,” Genevieve Clavel .................................................................................................34 “High Seas,” Jordan Paulk..............................................................................................................36 “Cultured,” Mary Shannon Wells................................................................................................39 “Drake,” Madeleine Boudreaux ..................................................................................................43 “Still Waters,” Catherine Hannahan..........................................................................................44 “Nature’s Creation,” Beth McFarland .......................................................................................46

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THE UNDERSTORY

“Dark Bloom,” Madeleine Boudreaux ......................................................................................48 “Contortionist,” Lauren Harris ...................................................................................................50 “Dinner for Six,” Hannah Hashimi .............................................................................................52 “Feral Gaze,” Genevieve Clavel ....................................................................................................54 “Termite Towers,” Eileen Shepard ............................................................................................57 “Gateway,” Nell Milling ...................................................................................................................59 “Siren,” Tori Fowler .........................................................................................................................60 “Shifted Shadows,” Kathleen McFarlane ................................................................................62 “Stunted Growth,” Daniel Dzwonkowski................................................................................67 “Walkway,” Kate Fowler.................................................................................................................69 “Bold Faces,” Mary Catherine Pierce ........................................................................................70 “Peaches,” Leigh Higby ...................................................................................................................72 “Adrift,” Madeleine Boudreaux ...................................................................................................76 “Day’s End,” Eileen Shephard ......................................................................................................78

FOREST FLOOR

“Valley Below,” Kate Fowler .........................................................................................................82 “Losing Lines,” Mary Shannon Wells........................................................................................84 “Unnamed Victim,” Dailey Dexter .............................................................................................85 “The Boxer,” Matthew Yoder ........................................................................................................86 “Drawn to a Flame,” Eileen Shepard ........................................................................................88 “Knot 1” & “Knot 2,” Genevieve Clavel................................................................................ 90-1 “Ravaging Rain,” Kate Fowler ......................................................................................................92 “Contemplation,” Matthew Yoder ..............................................................................................95 “Road Vomit,” Casey Barrett ........................................................................................................96 “Moss Man,” Hunter Seale.............................................................................................................99 “Just a Drop,” Taylor Moore.......................................................................................................101 “The Whole World,” Casey Barrett .........................................................................................103 “Hope on the Horizon,” Madeleine Boudreaux.................................................................104 “End of the Tunnel,” Andy Morrow........................................................................................107 “After the Storm,” Daly Miller ...................................................................................................108 “Strong Start,” Hannah Hashimi..............................................................................................110

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The Mind’s Eye Staff, 2012 EDITORS

Ellie Flock, ’12, Literary Editor Daly Miller, ’12, Artistic Editor

FACULTY ADVISOR

Ms. Pier Hardin, Studio Art and Creative Writing

INCOMING CO EDITORS Austill Harris, ’13 Nell Milling, ‘13

COLOPHON

This edition of The Mind’s Eye was compiled and designed using a Macintosh and Dell computer. Page layouts were created in Adobe InDesign CS6. Artwork was managed with Adobe Photoshop CS6.

The theme font, used for the cover and other pages, is Tribal Garamond, 16 to 30 point. Text is set in Cambria, with various styles, sizes 14 to 16 point. Headings for the section pages are set using the following fonts in size 20 to 28 point: Afro House, Antelope, Birch Standard, Chalk Dust, Children, Dr. Caligari, Harrington, Herculanum.

Printing services were provided by Southeastern Press Incorporated of Mobile.

SPECIAL THANKS

We are grateful to many people who help make our magazine come to fruition, most especially Mrs. Janey Miller, Mr. Bryon Waltman at Southeastern Press, and Mrs. Carolyn Miller, for their generosity and expertise.

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