Pawprint 2017

PAWPrint: Poetry.

Art. Writing.

2017

PAWPrint 2017 Volume 5. Issue 1 Vermont Academy Literary Magazine Vermont Academy 10 Long Walk. Saxtons River. Vermont

Advisor: Joanne Fuller

Cover photo: “The Dancers” by Tao “Jenny” Zhen ‘18

Special Thanks to: Lisa McNealus Ryan Burch Whitney Barrett

Printing by Minuteman Press, Brattleboro, VT

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Tao “Jenny” Zhen ‘18

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Table of Contents Pretty Contest — Honorable Mention ................................................................ 7 dunkin ................................................................................................................ 9 Rowing — Silver Key ....................................................................................... 11 Blue Bird of No Colour — Honorable Mention ................................................. 13 Ode to the beach ............................................................................................. 13 Ode to the Hug ................................................................................................ 14 Popular — Honorable Mention ........................................................................ 15 Dad — Silver Key ............................................................................................ 16 Of a Light Fixture ............................................................................................. 18 Written Acquaintances — Silver Key ............................................................... 19 A Place To Chase — Gold Key ....................................................................... 20 Hockey ............................................................................................................ 21 The Struggler ................................................................................................... 22 I Am Me — Honorable Mention ....................................................................... 23 Untitled – Honorable Mention .......................................................................... 23 Shining Bright — Silver Key, Poetry ................................................................ 24 untitled — Honorable Mention ......................................................................... 25 Popular — Honorable Mention ........................................................................ 26 Love of the Nanny — Honorable Mention ....................................................... 27 "Little Help" — Honorable Mention .................................................................. 28 Sonnet 25 — Honorable Mention .................................................................... 28 Disoriented — Honorable Mention .................................................................. 29 Sea Salt — Silver Key ..................................................................................... 30 And So They Kneel — Honorable Mention ..................................................... 32 Donut — Silver Key ......................................................................................... 35 Believe — Gold Key & Silver Medal ................................................................ 39 Impact of Technology — Honorable Mention .................................................. 40 How to Proctor the Freshmen — Silver Key .................................................... 42 Small Actions Leading To Large Results — Silver Key ................................... 46 The Day I Grew Up – Silver Key ..................................................................... 47 The Airedale Project — Silver Key .................................................................. 49 Dear Dad — Gold Key ..................................................................................... 52 Rowing you say? — Silver Key ....................................................................... 53 My Camera — Gold Key ................................................................................. 56 Strength Is Found In Altitude — Silver Key ..................................................... 58 The World of Melody Unbeknownst to Me – Silver Key .................................. 60

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P RETTY C ONTEST — H ONORABLE M ENTION

In life I have but one simple desire: to tear down the sky.

I knew it was a peculiar thought, strange to those untrained to my rabid manifestation of ideas in which the world stops turning.

I suppose that was my main goal, not to tear down the sky, but to see the world stop.

I don’t really know what I wanted, did I want everything to freeze?

The world to stop and enter in a state of complete and utter silence, the absence of anything that moved or made noise.

Or maybe I just wanted to see mass destruction from my very own two hands.

“Nova, are you ok?” He shouted from the bottom of the stairs descending my bedroom.

I loved his voice, but I hated the way it made me feel.

Anger, and withering pride becoming me.

“I’m fine.” I replied sourly, tilting my head out the window.

Glaring daggers into the glistening moon.

Envy. So much envy. I hated the moon, and it hated me.

I hated it because I know he would always choose the moon.

I was nothing compared to it.

I would never be pretty enough, never instill the radiating wisdom that moon did.

I wanted to tear it down. I wanted happiness at the expense of the moon.

I wanted the world to stop turning just so he would just notice me.

So I decided to let my envy win, to pull the lever.

Damn the consequences. Damn him.

I spun, now frantic with the need to end the universe and its children.

That damned moon would fall. And fall she did. I pulled the silver lever.

The mysterious lever that I couldn't stop thinking about.

But I would never tell him. Never giving him the satisfaction of seeing me fall.

He could see me cry, break down, but never fall.

Eleanor Stetson ‘19

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DUNKIN

That first sip of ice coffee from dunkin donuts is everything I got in my car at around three Plugged the aux in and rolled down the window That’s when I really felt free Within the car I had my own mini disco

Straight down north avenue Hittin’ all the green lights Spotted a walking Had to hit the break tight

Still thinking about that first sip of coffee Swerved into a parking spot Jumped out the car No one in line, I knew this was my shot Hoping this coffee is above sub par

She doesn’t even need to ask me my order “Ice coffee, milk and sugar?”

Just like a recorder “Hell, ya,” I beg her

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for She hands the coffee to me I grab a straw “Thank you b” That first sip had me in awe

God bless that ice coffee For being everything Sydney Royce ‘18

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R OWING — S ILVER K EY

In short, rowing is hard But it is not good to be short in rowing.

Eight aching hands grip four oars Blisters erupted forth from them at one point, like the birth of the moon, red hot and shifting But long since these hands too have cooled Reptilian callus the last remnant of that time.

The boat is one entity when perfected Synchronization is key.

This boat has yet to reach that state yet.

Four separate boys slide up, not one boat The fifth member, the coxswain, the eyes, the ears, the brain, the voice of the boat, calls out into the wires that serve as the nervous system of the elegant creature.

“Focus ten in two,” The command registers down the line of muscle, “That’s one” A shift in the boat, unnoticeable from the outside Something stirs in the forming creature, it takes its first breath, “That’s two on this one!”

Four boys disappear into a shell, designed for speed, natural selection having turned the beast into a stream line torpedo through the water.

Four drives power it forward as one Silver bullets of pain ebb away during this time Revelation of the perfect stroke takes over Ten strokes are called out, the signal running through the sinew of the beast like electricity, Suddenly a fin, or maybe by this point it was an oar again, slices the water a beat early Pain returns, four boys tumbling into the world as the aquatic monster slinks back into the abyss.

They’ll try again for the rest of practice, but the beast remains hidden, and the pain stays.

Carrying the carcass up out of the water on shaky legs they sigh, Tomorrow.

Will Svensson ‘18

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B LUE B IRD OF N O C OLOUR — H ONORABLE M ENTION

I was born in grey and white Where the dark roads turn bright In the winter snow

I grew up in green and blue Where the red maples bristle In warm autumn blow

Such beautiful colours I have seen The colours that does not blend The colours I shouldn't have seen

They tell me I'm grey, but not dark enough They tell me I'm red but not bright enough It seems to fade everytime I add a little more colour

I guess it's not colour I'm putting in, it's water

All the sticks and stones that were thrown I guess it's time for me to pick them up To make a place where i can call home Jiwoo Lee ‘18

O DE TO THE BEACH

Beach You are unlike any place.

I smell your saltiness miles away, happiness finally hits.

You scorch my feet from sand that soaks up the fire from the blazing sun.

I sprint to the water to conserve my feet.

I leap to safety yet this new place slings walls of water at me.

You try to engulf me yet all I want is to feel refreshed.

Creatures I am not allowed to see sting me and bite and pinch.

Why may I not see these creatures through your dark water?

Why does every part of you want me out?

Yet why does every part of me crave you?

You burn, you chomp, you drown, you pinch.

Oh beach you are unlike any place, you are my place.

Nathan Smith ‘18

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O DE TO THE H UG

This one is for the Hug. This one is for the Hug after scoring a goal.

I love when the Hug comes around because I get to be excited.

I get to scream and jump and let the world know we scored.

I get to be the happiest I can be, with the guys I’m the happiest with.

I’m allowed to smile and scream, “Woohoo! Atta way boys!”

Because everyone understands why we are happy.

No matter if it's a normal, shorthand, power play, or game winning goal, I am always ready to give the Hug.

The memories I have with the Hug are undeniable.

Scoring my first goal at VA at Rice and then turning to see the smiling face of Ethan Wing.

Or watching Nathan Smith snipe against Wyoming Seminary and racing everyone to Hug him.

Or Hugging Robbie Ferreira after he scored against Cushing And smiling together as waited for the others to join our warm embrace.

The Hug is what everyone does after the puck goes in.

The taste of your sweat and the smell of rotten gear is worth it for a Hug. I hope you keep coming to me Hug because I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.

To me a goal is only a goal when everyone comes together and gives out the Hug. So the only way that a goal counts, is if it is sealed with a Hug.

Tanner Dalton PG

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P OPULAR — H ONORABLE M ENTION

In a vehicle, five souls journey down a dirt road.

Only one voice, one mind, one narrative is heard.

Long hair, blond from a bottle speaks her mind and leaves no room, no time, no opportunity for others.

The two hands on the wheel request other orators a voice begins, yet, she interrupts, she siphons group attention.

Alternate voices strangled by a monster posing as a diamond.

Adaline Catlin ‘17

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D AD — S ILVER K EY

Didn't you hear me knock?

Didn't you hear me through the door?

I guess something’s very wrong, there are tears all over the floor.

Why is there so much yelling echoing through the house?

When I'm just sitting all alone, silent and with doubt.

I sit and watch my mother cry, I stare at my father and wonder Why? Everything has been turned upside down;; There are no more smiles, no more sounds.

Three months pass and I'm still not okay, it’s hard to wake up each and everyday.

They pretend like it’s all fine now, but when I sit up at night, I wonder how?

How can a family go from so good to so bad?

How can I look up and still call him my dad?

My mom was right, it will all be okay but for sure I know, today is not that day.

Life is full of heartbreak and pain but like the quote says, “You can’t have sunshine without a little rain.”

I know he was hurting and I know she was sad, but I can’t help but think where is my dad?

Where did all the smiles go?

The fun?

The laughter?

Does my dad without a smile feel any happier?

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He wasn't there to listen, or to see my cry.

My dad was gone with the blink of an eye.

It’s hard to understand what you don't really know, but my dad was a man who didn't know where to go.

He had six big hearts waiting for him at home, but instead he chose to run, to go.

It’s hard to understand something when all you do is judge;; It’s not that easy to hate someone you have always loved.

It’s not easy to be here to constantly cry;; sometimes I wonder, how are there so many lies?

How can they lie, scream, yell and weep, so loudly that neighbors hear down the street?

How is it that this family has gotten so bad?

Oh god, where is my dad?

Nadya Grisczenkow ‘18

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O F A L IGHT F IXTURE

I seem to find light where there has been provided a fixture. I see competition as a tribute to superficial success and can define luminescence in love by contemplating the why, and who behind questions. Is the who a person or an idealistic figure of purity, You see my friend when we assign ‘it’ to be a humanized character we tie it to the limited conscientious boundaries and resources that we ourselves run into in the journey to answers. What if ‘it’ is the answer. This would lead us to an age old question being “what even is the question and who cares anyways?” The more we know the more we wonder and the more we understand the more we question. Therefore, acceptance of abstraction as beauty can be seen as the light at the end of the unknown tunnel we all find ourselves in. This tunnel we find ourselves in is a tunnel where we ponder the walls and theorize about the very air we breath. We breath this material existence in unquestioning acceptance that it keeps us alive. When a human is born, they do not question, they trust and express. As we leave the starting line behind at the entrance to the tunnel we grow more and more wary, seeming to forget all the lack of trust we were born with life becomes a game i shall write in verse about this game.

Oh how nice to be a bear, a silly ol’ thing. oh how nice to be kind and find myself king. upon thrones of flower pedals and intuitive justice, i sit, see and cry over years of the circular quest. See a circle is a square and a square has round edges for nothing impounds itself but all can find ledges.

And once i find the end to this wall i shall look down to see nothing at all But if there happens to be nothing to cast eyes upon, then i should have had something pessimism, is gone.

And now to begin with a letter.

Dear Future, Past, and Present, and whomever else it may concern, Is there a fourth party? Forthcoming to liberty i see nothing but fear, obedience, resentment and confusion. Ignorance is dominant but should i wish for this bliss or is there an answer where i can stay comfy cozy wrapped in the folds of your love. There it is again i refer to it as a you, a he, she, they or maybe not they, i feel it to be singular. do i disrespect you when i call you an it, can calling it you tie down the abilities of an age old god. What do we consider a god in the modern age, is it a place of solace sought only for help in times of being scared or grateful, can this power be naturally desired through contentment.

Goodness me i seem to see that i have many more questions before i am free.

Sincerely yours but equally mine, Scott... I think.

P.S. Maybe we are equals , maybe we are separate, maybe i am you and you are me. i shall respond later.

Scott Restivo ‘18

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W RITTEN A CQUAINTANCES — S ILVER K EY

Just give me one second.

One minute of 525,600— like a second to a year A fraction of a lifetime.

To introduce myself, Though my name is far from necessary.

I am an interchangeable part of the 8 billion And the world moves on from us quickly.

If we ever meet or have met It is a miracle, meticulously chosen by the universe A meeting that the odds are against Have our eyes met?

Have we exchanged a smile?

It is true you will not remember me These easily forgotten words written sloppily in verse mean little It is true: maybe the universe did not bother with introductions this time But here I am.

Even if our lives never cross paths, they have touched Even for a brief moment.

The world will keep turning, The sun will continue to glow, And life will help us forget those Who turned right while we went left.

And we remember those who so long eluded our brains The universe will pause.

And smile.

And think to itself Isn’t it a wonder?

That a life so quick, so fragile Why, it too gives us background noise We cannot meet everyone, do everything, be everything, see everything We are the background noise, So let us be brilliant.

If we cannot speak, then for God’s sake, let our words turn to music Let our words become songs and let those who hear them Dance.

Maureen Hughes ‘19

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A P LACE T O C HASE — G OLD K EY

1 I just want to skate and create, a place to chase, images in space.

I stay mindful, aware of self, focus on life, and invest in my health.

I'm in the process of facing my learning – I learn different and that was viewed as a problem – ADHD, disability, whatever you call it, I wanted to solve 'em.

2 Or resolve 'em, 3 and evolve 'em.

Yet my differences surround me, amaze my days and astound me.

Life doesn't need to be simple, 4 the feel of change is aesthetic and beautiful, 5 a pre-­teen outside of the cubicle.

Although fragile is not me, 6 I've been around the world 7 and hold my head high with pride while I'm stepping.

8 listen to the words 9 of different feathered birds, 10 titans of sound Madlib and Led zeppelin.

11 Happy to be an indigo child of the 21st 12 ready for such a big move in the world.

13 And knowledge is power, I hydrate through thirst 14 then flow through water into song and verse.

15 run like cattle and sleep in my cradle 16 I view college like colors and numbers, spinning at the speed of light, 17 almost like Jewish space men playing with dreidels. “disabled's” a fable, 18 “disabled's” a label, 19 like my ethnicity that doesn't exist.

20 I know this world needs to be fixed without fists 21 but through flames that I spit from my lips 22 off lyrical waves that crash and drift 23 into a beach shore I call my consciousness.

24 Section 80' taught me that – 25 real raps and real facts from smarter cats that were considered bench warmers with starter caps.

26 Studying in college wont help me learn harder math.

27 I need deep thought. because nowadays kids on the block are seeing school at the top without giving reflection, and due to my complexion, people like me were working on crops, which created a world where rich white men own yachts, 28 and oil to fuel shops.

I want to take everything they got 29 (but I'm everything they're not) 30 and give it to the people.

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I'm high in my mind standing on a steeple.

On a skate I realized my board and I are equal.

In class, so far, I'm seen as unfocused... but the neurons in my brain blossom 31 like a lotus.

32 Hope you notice.

Henry Hochschild ‘17

H OCKEY

I love the game I love to play Pack the chouk And scream hooray

It’s hockey season And its time to roll Me and my boys Scoring goals

Dangle, snipe, celly Is what we do Its our job So lets get this W

It’s our time now And we are ready to go To bury some genos Get em with the tic tac toe

Pass shoot score Is how we play It’s what we know best It’s in our DNA

I love the sport And i love my boys So lets get out there And make some noise

Ethan Wing ‘17

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Leo Yoshinaga ’18

T HE S TRUGGLER

I am trapped in my head, I look up from my phone, I don’t remember what the teacher said, I wish she would just leave me alone.

I am tired, I am sleepy and I am hungry, I definitely need some hot chocolate, Man, I think I have A.D.H.D., Oh, yeah, a lot of it.

At the end of the day I feel sad, I didn’t even write any notes, Now my grades are going to be bad, Mom will never buy me that Calvin Klein coat.

I am out of lead, I am trapped in my head, I just want to go to bed, I don’t remember what the teacher said.

Robert Ferreira ‘18

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I A M M E — H ONORABLE M ENTION

I am from . . . creativity and laughter, Always here to brighten your day, I am from funny times to serious time, A boy who definitely knows his limits, sometimes, A kid that is polite, and tentative also, Who makes a good impression.

I am from the ice to the field to the ice again and then to the weight room, Non stop development, wanting to be the best I can be, I am from techno to country, from rock to hip hop I am from not forgetting where I came from.

I am from six hour car rides with bags on my lap, No possible way to be comfortable, From 6:00 AM to 11:00 PM four days a week I am from my mistakes, Learning each and every day trying to get to the next level.

I am from skate blades to hockey sticks, From forty-­fives on each side, I am from the Plain White Ts to Avicii I am from learning from my mistakes, From making myself a better man, But still learning everyday.

Robert Ferreira ‘18

U NTITLED – H ONORABLE M ENTION

As time advances the ability to pioneer becomes more difficult Yet more sought after From explorers to inventors, the demand will never cease Which leads to the question Is there a finite amount of viable ideas or useful places to discover Will we ever run out of discoveries Jakob Curtis ‘19

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S HINING B RIGHT — S ILVER K EY , P OETRY

Utah gets cold in the winter, In the middle of nowhere, In the dead of night.

The distant sky snows, And the wind blows, And the stars are oh so pretty Shining bright.

Utah gets tough in the winter, In the middle of nowhere, In the dead of night when I just can’t move anymore And I’m sorry But I can’t.

And the stars are oh so pretty Shining bright.

Moving gets easier as time goes on, As I find my way In the dead of night.

And the snow comes down And the Wind blows the snow around, And the future is dark And my bones are Cold But the stars are oh so pretty Shining bright.

Massachusetts isn’t cold in the middle of summer, In the middle of the city, In the dead of night, Or the middle of the day.

And I can’t See the stars anymore, Blocked by the lights of the city Shining bright, But someone in the middle of nowhere, In the dead of night, When the snow buries the grass

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And the wind takes the leaves from the trees, Is looking up at the sky Thinking I can’t I’m sorry But I can’t.

And moving is hard.

But Look at the stars Oh so pretty Shining bright.

Caitlyn McDermott ‘18

UNTITLED — H ONORABLE M ENTION

I quake at the thought of peering into my own abyss I do not have a fear of what twists and churns in the darkness But a fear that when I do take a great dive into the deep end I shall be greated with not the boogey man who gives me inspiration But the cold bottom of a barrel that rings a sad emptiness From which I have been grasping and pulling up an aether That does not reflect the complexity that of others such as the night sky holds But casts a revealing light past the woven words I hide behind and would much rather keep knotted Jakob Curtis ‘19

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P OPULAR — H ONORABLE M ENTION

In a vehicle, five souls journey down a dirt road.

Only one voice, one mind, one narrative is heard.

Long hair, blond from a bottle speaks her mind and leaves no room, no time, no opportunity for others.

The two hands on the wheel request other orators a voice begins, yet, she interrupts, she siphons group attention.

Alternate voices strangled by a monster posing as a diamond.

Adaline Catlin ‘17

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L OVE OF THE N ANNY — H ONORABLE M ENTION

Three small, chubby hands reach towards me as I place cheddar chunks in their smooth palms.

Their faces light up as they chew, nourished and happy.

Two adult and six child feet hand over the couch side, reading and snuggling as light leaves the sky.

Eyes droop and arms hug tighter.

Open the door and, instantly embraced by short arms saying they missed me and longed for my laugh.

I feel needed and wanted by young ones with strong love, large hearts.

Little people Dependent on me for their needs.

They show appreciation through unconditional love and toothy grins. I feel needed and purposeful.

Car packed, they drive away waving and crying.

Life feels empty without them.

I am no longer needed by my little people, contained in their world of love, guiding my ship.

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Doorbell rings, I open it to find a package on the stoop. Inside resides a silver necklace.

Place it round my neck for constant reminder of largess adoration.

Adaline Catlin ‘17

"L ITTLE H ELP " — H ONORABLE M ENTION

It is hard to prioritize all the evil in the world And very few have power to end a problem However everyone has the power to help No one raindrop causes a landslide, but a rainfall can affect great change So never feel like your choice doesn’t matter You have the ability to make someone's day better Jakob Curtis ‘19 S ONNET 25 — H ONORABLE M ENTION

Do you see what I see?

Walk upon the shore, And look out into the sea.

Watch the waves roll more and more.

Pick up the shell, Hear its call, Observe the salty smell.

This is a place for us all.

Look upon the sky, the vast expanse over head.

Clouds drift by, sun kissed with golden thread.

Breath in breath out, Beauty is all about.

* * * Spring is coming Lacrosse season is here Time to start running

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String your stick, smell the leather Braided hair, sprinting down field

* * * Long and sweaty run Enticed by the river Jump into it Anna Connerty ‘18

D ISORIENTED — H ONORABLE M ENTION

“Why do you have to be like this? What turned you into this . . .”

“You don't get it. It's hard being adjusted to who you are and what you look like and waking up the next day, different.”

“You are the one who asked for this, and worked for it, how could you not have seen it coming?”

I walk up to the girl, Beatrice her name was, and sit next to her on the bed and tell her with a look of sincerity, “Do you ever really see things coming? Or are we all just people hoping that however were bracing ourselves, will survive the blow?” The girl looks to the hardwood floor, for a moment, time stops in just that small second story bedroom, her facial expressions are unreadable.

“What are you thinking about?” I say. A tear falls on her thigh as she looks up.

She looks into my eyes;; she kisses me.

“What about who I am now? What about me being different?” She rids her eyes of the tears. I look at her now moist lips.

“I guess I changed too . . . I made myself capable of loving you, whoever you are . . .”

Tomas Deveault ‘18

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Tao “Jenny” Zheng ‘18

S EA S ALT — S ILVER K EY

Even in the dark, with no one around to catch her if she fell, Allison felt comforted. She absorbed the loneliness like a sponge and then floated away on the heaving ocean. The waves lifted her up and set her down, carrying her weight like a rose petal on the wind. She sighed with each fall and let the cold waters claw at her back, the pain was loving and acknowledging. She tipped her head back and drank the salt waters, letting the sea fill her empty lungs and drag her down beneath the surface. The sun faded away like a young memory in an old mind. As she lowered to the sea floor, and the temperature began to rip at her flesh. She sighed. The water was forced out and then pulled in again, dragging along the inside of her lungs like sand paper. She reached up just to see her hands disappear in the dim light and her hair swathed her face in matted nets. She imagined she was going to a funeral and she wore a black bird's cage over her face to hide her dry eyes. It was her funeral, she greeted her mother and father who held each other, one's arms awkwardly wrapped around the other's body in an attempt to protect them from harms that do not abide by natures laws. She sees her aunt who is whispering to some other funeral-­goers about a scandal at her workplace. She walks up to her casket and looks at the photos and flowers surrounding it;; a few distant relatives scattered around crying quietly. She places a gloved hand on the mahogany lid and accidentally makes eye contact with her cousin, Alice, who nods and smiles. She turns to the open casket and, with her hand clutching a handkerchief close to her heart, and looked down on the empty satin bedding. She sighed a third time, the air in the church raked down her

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throat and her tears burnt her cheeks as they rolled. She looked back at the pews lined with wide eyes. Her hand tightened on the edge of the casket and she bit her lip. The people began to whisper to her, their voices spilling over each other and building in volume. "Go." someone said. "Stay." Said another.

"It's time." "We miss you." We love you." "Goodbye." The voices were bursting in rhythm, waves almost. They surged forward in unison, gathered themselves and chanting again. One voice started singing her name and it spread like wildfire. Soon everyone was singing her name and then began to quiet down.

People started to leave the church and she saw the sun coming up through the stained glass. He stood in the aisle, bathed in purpled sunlight and staring up at her with big brown eyes. His lips were moving but she couldn't hear him.

She took a step forward and her legs quivered beneath her. She took another step and fell to her knees;; she crawled toward him. As she grabbed for his feet the salt forced it's way back up her sore throat. It poured out onto the floor and pooled around his feet. He knelt and held her pale face in his fragile hands, his thin lips still moving silently. She grasped at his face and begged him to tell her. He stopped talking and smiled at her, like a father to a daughter. He kissed her forehead and stood up;; as he began to walk away she scrambled after him and screamed for him to come back, for him to help her, but he was already out the door and closing it behind him. As she flung herself at the closing door the purple sunlight faded away, and in the last moments she was alone in the dark. She gasped but no air filled her lungs, nor knife-­like salt, she forced out every ounce of breath left and close her eyes.

Miranda Fuller ‘19

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A ND S O T HEY K NEEL — H ONORABLE M ENTION

The chapel seethed with bodies. Everywhere you turned, cloaked figures moved smoothly through the grand chamber on their business. Outside, the people of the guild city went about their lives, moving down the streets and in and out of buildings.

A man entered the church. He wore a cloak like every other, black with a red star on the hood. Behind him two more men similarly dressed stepped through the doorway and subtly took up positions on either side of the door, continuing to blend with the shifting crowd. Under their cloaks, they began to finger the hilts of their swords.

The first man moved unperturbed. He slowly, purposefully, stepped toward the altar at the end of the room. The largest congregation of peoples seemed to be here. Hundreds stood beneath the twisted black stonework.

Each and everyone of them, in turn, bowed toward the altar. They murmured prayers and praise as priests looked down upon them.

Outside of the church a man walked past on the main street. He, like so many others, wore a cloak with the red star. As he passed the far side of the church, he turned down a small side alley. He went down it several yards before pausing and looking both ways to see if he was being watched.

Assured he was not, he shrugged off his cloak. Beneath stood a man. He was fairly average in looks, but below his back and above his bottom, a reptilian tail protruded from him. A large rifle was slung over his back, and several small cylindric objects were clipped to a belt around his waist.

He began climbing the wall of the church, faster than was seemingly possible.

He quickly reach one of the large, open windows near the top of the wall. He unslung his rifle from his back and sat down in the window, facing the altar far below him.

The man took one last deliberate step. He stood below the altar, in the mass of cloaked figures. He very slowly and very calmly lowered his hood.

Underneath, incredibly red eyes glowed out. For a moment no one noticed.

Then, a man in front of him turned to depart from the altar. He stopped dead, gibbering as his eyes met with the man’s.

Suddenly, the red eyes flashed. The hoards around him clasped their heads. A mental shockwave rocketed outward from him. The six closest to him grabbed their skulls and stumbled before their heads exploded between their hands. The next ones simply tripped themselves and fell to the ground, holding their heads in their hands screaming. More quickly followed. In a few seconds, everyone within fifty feet of the man had collapsed to the floor in seething agony.

A sudden hush fell over the room. The two men quietly closed the large oak doors, while the man in the window fingered his rifle. A priestly figure on the altar looked down at the man standing surrounded by the dead and dying.

The last thing he saw were red eyes as suddenly the air seemed to ripple and a gaping hole appeared in his chest as his flesh caved in while at the same

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time melting together. His lifeless knees buckled underneath him and his body collapsed to the ground.

The man in the window adjusted the sight of his rifle, and the other man on the altar stumbled backward as the flesh of his face began to melt away, his features dissolving and disintegrating. The room erupted into chaos. A sudden exodus towards the doors began, only to briefly falter as they realized the doors has been both shut and barred. The two men by the door pulled swords from beneath their cloaks that seemed to shimmer. They suddenly lunged at the cloaked figures closest to them, cutting through them as if through butter.

The room became truly chaotic as people closest to the door began trying to run away from the two men, only to be stopped by the rush of those who had not seen the sword-­wielding killers. The man with the rifle began firing at will into the crowd, people falling left and right as their heads and torsos collapsed in upon themselves. The two by the door began hacking at anyone pushed within range of their blades.

The man walked slowly toward the altar as chaos raged around him. He was almost totally forgotten in the crowd’s rush to escape. He reach the altar and turned, looking down on the slaughter. The man in the window pulled one of the objects off of his belt. He held down a priming button on the side for several seconds until it clicked green and he quickly tossed it down into the center of the room, where a good number of people still were. He slowly counted down from ten. As he reached two, an explosion rocked the building.

The air seemed to suck in for a millisecond before a blast of pure energy rocketed outward, vaporizing everything in its path. He quietly cursed his count being off.

Standing on the altar, the man raised his hands.

“You, of the Order of Chaos,” he said loudly. The door guards stopped attacking the cloaked men, and the people turned toward the sound of his voice in confusion. A few tried to take advantage of the relative calm and push their way toward the door only to be held back by the men holding swords, glaring evenly at them.

“Your pure human supremacy has gone on for too long” he thundered.

“Fall before the might of the good and righteous! Or kneel before our feet and admit your wrongdoing!”

Another hush fell over the crowd. Then, a man knelt down, placing his hands on his head. Another followed, and another, and another. The wave of kneelers began to spread quickly across the room. But one stayed standing.

Those behind him faltered in their kneeling, drawing courage from his defiance.

“We will never submit to you! Mutant freak!” he screamed, drawing a dagger and charging across the floor. He had barely made it halfway to the altar before his shoulder disintegrated, melting away into his torso, and the man’s arm fell to the ground. The knife clattered from lifeless fingers and he fell, wildly groping for where his arm once was and whimpering. The man in

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the window once more lowered the rifle from his shoulder.

As a single mass, the men who remained standing knelt.

Sam Kendrick ‘19

Patrick Ogden ‘19

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D ONUT — S ILVER K EY

It grew faster than I expected, my Little Tree. The packaging said it would reach three inches in a month, but it’s only been two weeks. I guess you can never really trust genetically engineered things anyway. I’m concerned about the roots though;; they’re not rupturing the veins or skin, but is it supposed to turn my blood slightly green? Oh, it says on the packaging that’s a side affect.

Along with Termites, fruit poisoning and Micro Birds.

I saw a story on the news about a guy who had his Little Tree planted on his back. He let it let it grow to the size of a large bouquet and he couldn’t wear shirts. Anyway, he had this giant Little Tree and ended up with a bad case of Micro Birds. There were hundreds of them, the Little Tree looked like a beehive, accept the bees were white and made monotone chirping instead of humming. He ended up having to remove the Little Tree because its roots were too big and were tearing his skin. The ‘after’ story had pictures of him with his massive scars and a patch of NooSkin to cover the gaping hole where the stump had been.

I hoped my tree never got that big. I don’t think my skinny wrist could take it. I nervously took out the care kit that had come with the tree. The little baby scissors that were included to trim the small branches were pathetic little things. I grabbed a pair of nail clippers from my desk to use instead. Trying to cut with my right hand was proving quite difficult;; perhaps I should have grown the tree on my weaker hand. I didn’t want to cut off any branches with leaves, so I just cut off a little nubbin from the trunk. It couldn’t really be called a trunk yet;; it was only the width of a pencil. Satisfied with my daily pruning I threw out the crappy scissors, put the nail clippers in the care kit and put it back on my shelf.

Lately I’d been thinking about getting a glow injection. Then my green blood would at least look cool instead of gross. But I had a friend who got one and she had some kind of allergic reaction and ended up in the hospital for a year.

They charged her broke too, she crashed on my couch while recovering and adjusting to her new blood, but once she got a boyfriend she moved out. I think they live in Egypt now;; she wanted to see the Pyramids before they were renovated to become public museums.

I don’t blame her for wanting to see the originals before they’re destroyed, History Interactive ruins everything. But what can we do? Just like Machu Picchu being turned into housing for the natives. I get what they were going for, but they really didn’t need to add Planet Nourishment. Don’t they know that the corporation that owns PN is anti-­interplanetary immigration?

The other day I read an article about how the Entities of Neptune are taking guinea pigs and breeding them for larger pelts. It reminded me of the year we thought the Pigmy Monkey had gone extinct, but it turns out the Martians had taken them all as a practical joke. I thought it was clever, but the president thought otherwise.

Then there’s the Pluto prostitution scandal. We send a few men and women

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up there every year in exchange for star diamonds. I hear they go for a million bucks a carat. The traders say the humans are willing volunteers but everyone knows it’s a mafia lie. My cousin’s friend’s aunt got sent up there, to Pluto. I don’t know much beyond that other than the fact that her cat died because no one knew she was missing for over a week.

I used to have a cat, but he died of brain cancer. I think it was he Cat Bath Bombs. The ingredients were a bit sketchy but I was young and naive three years ago. I didn’t read labels or warnings, until the death of Donut. At his funeral I vowed to read every ingredient, every warning, note every packaging label and instruction. No creature will ever be harmed by my carelessness again. I had then cried over his casket for a good five minutes and had to be escorted back to my seat by my teary eyed sister.

It was eleven AM now and my meeting with Robert wasn’t until two. If Donut were still alive I’d take him for a walk. I got a little sad just thinking about him;; his glossy black fur with the perfect white ‘O’ on his forehead. I remember designing him at the library every day. The nice lady at the desk would see me come in and say “Designing again, dear?” She’d ask. After three weeks I stopped responding and just smiled back at her. I could probably design Donut in my sleep I knew the keys so well.

Size: #5, select.

Fur: #1, select Whiskers: #8, select. Etc… When I’d finally gotten my duel month paycheck from Nikki’s piercing and implants I ran straight to the library. I didn’t even stop to hear the nice lady’s comment, to this day I don’t know what she said. I sat down, logged in, redesigned for the 60th time, and finally got to press ‘Order’. Three days later there was a cardboard box on my doorstep. I had ever so gently plugged the charger into the wall and into his piercing green left eye. Half and hour later he was nuzzling my thighs.

I decided to go to the library early, I could maybe design another cat. No, Donut was my true love;; it’s too soon. I got in the car anyway, I needed to get out more. That’s hard to do when you’re so comfortable at home, though.

The town wasn’t very busy for a Saturday, I only say a dozen people walking down the streets. There was almost no one in the shops either. The library was always full though. I think it’s a new trend to be a ‘Book Worm’ as they call it. I’ll have you know I was making daily trips to the library before it was cool. I didn’t intend to go to the library today, that’s just were I ended up. I went straight to my favorite seat;; two down from the end on the third row. The keyboard scanned my fingers and the Design-­A-­Cat website was still open. I guess I haven’t on the computer since I ordered Donut.

There’s a girl next to me with an anti-­interplanetary immigration tattoo on her forearm.

“Excuse me miss.” I said, immediately losing my will power to control what I say.

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“What?” She stared blankly into a Youniverse strip club.

“Your tattoo.” I accidentally got a glimpse of her screen and saw a largely proportioned woman being rammed in the ass. I cringed and averted my eyes.

She grinned lazily.

“Does this bother you?” She asked.

“Yes, but not as much as your tattoo.”

“Oh, god.” She rolled her eyes and hunched over the computer screen.

“I don’t mean to sound aggressive but what do you have against extraterrestrial immigrants?”

“Look, lady. I really don’t want to argue about this right now. I have a business meeting in five and I kind of need to be in a decent mood for it to go well.” She turned back to her computer and resumed her mindless staring.

I continued to watch her out of the corner of my eye, her hair was the first thing I noticed. Neon pink with gray slow pulsing highlights is hard to miss in a library. Her skin had a strange hue to it too. It looked almost magenta from the right angle. She didn’t appear to have any other tattoos that I could see. She suddenly shut down the Youniverse website and started taking out all her earrings and nose piercings and anything else around her head and shoulders. Some kind of invite popped up on the screen, but she opened camera to look over herself first. Satisfied, she accepted the invite.

She pulled a pair of Ear Buddies out of her pocket and placed them in her ears. When the screen turned on again there were three other faces on the screen, all from different computers. The one in the middle said something and the girl replied “Guten Tag.” The others spoke with her, though I couldn’t hear what they were saying. “Herr Doherty, Ich glaube wir vorher getroffen habe.” The girl said. I started jotting down what she said on my computer screen, I tipped it at a slight angle so she couldn’t see. The man on the left replied. “Ja, es ist shön zu warden Geschafte mächen wieder mit Ihnen.” She had taken on a more sinister heir since the beginning of the meeting. It was probably her German, it was quite convincing. “Ich habe die Ware.” She said, her lips flattening any hint of a friendly smile that had been there. The others smiled and chuckled on screen. The one in the middle said something. “Nein, ich nicht verkaufen, das.”

She seemed aggravated;; she posed it as almost a question. The man in the middle exhaled and leaned back. “Es is nicht, was Sie gefragt.” She laughed but it was frustrated. The other men shook their heads. “Ok, ok. Ich werde es dir zu bekommen, aber ich möchte ein wenig mehr. Fünf Protzent.” She clenched her fists under the table. The men sat quietly for a bit, and the one on the right said something. Then the others spoke together in reply to him.

The three of them opened and closed their mouths rapidly but to me there was no sound and I had to stifle my laughter. “Männer.” She shouted. “Geben Sie mir eine Antwort bitte.” She glared into the computer. The men sat quietly for a moment and then started speaking one at a time, as if to give numbers. “Ich werde nicht unter fünfzig gehen.“ She replied. “Und Sie wäre ein Narr, um mehr als hundert gehen.”

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The girl was silent for a long time while the men on the screen chatted with each other. After the quiet had extended longer than five minutes the girl took out her phone and made a call. The line picked up immediately.

“Bonjour George, je ont conclu l'affaire avec les hommes de l'Allemagne. Vous pouvez vous attendre les marchandises d'ici lundi.” A broken and crackling voice whispered on the other end.

“Merci Zobe.” It said. The men had stopped talking. She closed the phone and threw it in the trash under the desk.

“Ich entschuldige mich die Unterbrechung. Haben Sie Schluss gekommen?”

She said, followed by a short pause. “Wunderbar. Ich bin froh, dass Sie sich entschieden zu kooperieren. Ich hoffe, mit Ihnen Geschäfte alle bald wieder zu tun.“ She took out her ear buds and slipped them back into her pocket. She took out a flash drive and plugged it into the computer. I hid my face and strained my eyes to the right as far as they could. She must be downloading a virus into the computer to get rid of the evidence. She must be in the mafia or something. I had been within a one-­foot radius of a mafia member, or some kind of gang girl. My muscles began to tighten one by one and I sat there, rigid and trembling;; imagining all the things that could have gone wrong. If I had pressed my beliefs on interplanetary immigration she might have pulled a gun to my head. Maybe if I’d asked her what she was doing I’d be meat in the black market by now. Or if I’d asked her to stop watching that interactive strip club, I might have been smucked right in the library.

That was too far, I shuddered violently and decided to wait for Robert on the comfy seats. I waited for a while, listening to the loud silence of a crowded library. I had calmed myself and to channel my nervous energy made up a story in my mind.

Miranda Fuller ‘19

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B ELIEVE — G OLD K EY & S ILVER M EDAL

I am considered lucky. Developing a great relationship with my teacher and mentor Lisa Ryan, I was able to get an experience that most people in Camden didn't. I traveled to Vermont with Lisa the summer after 4th grade.

The drive, which felt like the longest ride ever, was worth it because it helped motivate me and shape the person I am today.

After a long 6 hours, I remember seeing a sign that read, “Welcome to Vermont”. I stuck my head out of the window and began breathing in as hard as I could. I had never smelled air that was so fresh, and so filled with the smell of beautiful flowers and happiness. I was amazed by the overly tall trees and the signs that said, “Moose Crossing”. What caught my eye the most were the huge houses that had driveways, and big yards with the greenest grass my eyes had ever seen. Throughout the week I stayed in Vermont, I had many first time experiences. These included my first hike, my first lobster, my first time driving a mower, and most of all, my first time believing.

My dad was killed the spring prior to this trip in a drive by shooting. My dad was my role model, and many people began to worry about me after his death, especially Lisa. My mom was still alive, but she was at one of two places, back in jail, or on her corner selling dope. Either way she wasn’t in my life. My story was the same as most kids in Camden, poor with no parents to look up to. Why would I believe? I had no reason to, until Lisa gave me the opportunity to do so.

Camden, New Jersey, is a place where most people don't believe. They don’t believe in education. They don’t believe in success. Unfortunately, it is not their fault. The people develop this attitude by what they are surrounded by everyday. They see nonstop poverty, violence, and drug dealing. They watch parents struggle to get jobs. How could they believe? By believe, I mean having the strength to want to do better, as both a person, and in life. Most don't have the opportunity to see the world and have experiences beyond the city of Camden. For example, before attending my 8th grade graduation in Vermont, my grandma had never left the state of New Jersey. You could tell from her body language, she was in complete culture shock.

After the trip to Vermont, I had my mind set on one thing and one thing only;; and that was to get out of Camden, New Jersey. I saw that life was so much more than what Camden offered me. That trip gave me the hope and strength to strive for more than drug dealing and a one-­bedroom apartment. Shortly after the trip, I decided that I wanted to leave Camden and attend a boarding school in Vermont. That is when I was accepted to Kurn Hattin Homes at the beginning of my fifth grade year. I have now officially been in the state of Vermont for seven years;; and I will soon be the first person in my family to graduate from high school. Yes, I miss my family daily, and unfortunately, even the streets of Camden. But I know in the long run that by leaving I am helping my family, and giving other people in Camden the hope to make it out.

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My grandma reminds me often of how proud she is of who I have become. I use her words as motivation to do even better. I want nothing more than the best for my family and the city that raised me. I don't ever see myself going back, but instead using my story to motivate others in Camden to do better. I can't thank Lisa enough for giving me the opportunity to believe.

Jahyde Bullard ‘17 IMPACT OF T ECHNOLOGY — H ONORABLE M ENTION

Over the years, technology has become both a blessing and a curse. It has given us a way to stay connected with the people nearby, but has simultaneously made our social skills worse. At an increasingly younger age, children are introduced to different types of technology, such as iPhones, iPods, iPads, or computers. When I was young, I would sometimes watch TV, but I was not interested in playing on my parent’s phones. If I was fussy my parents would hand me a toy, paper and crayons or a stuffed animal instead of handing me something with a screen. I often see that when little children get fussy, parents don’t give them toys or stuffed animals, nor do parents try to entertain or encourage their children. They give them their phone or turn on the TV to keep them occupied. Soon kids develop the habit of using a device to distract themselves from anything the least bit uncomfortable or boring.

This past summer I was a counselor at the camp I attended for years, with twelve ten-­year-­old girls in my bunk. Counselors are allowed to have phones, but campers are not, a great policy which allows campers to disconnect from social media. They connect with people and their environment, they build lasting friendships that are based on shared experiences, and they have real conversations with others. On visiting day, everyone is excited to see their parents. People are hugging, smiling, crying, and laughing, until those dreaded words come out of the campers’ mouths: “Mom, Dad, did you guys bring my phone? Can I have it?” Parents don’t want to say no and upset their children, so they hand over the device. Within two minutes the campers are zoned out, and conversation with their parents stops. This is disappointing for the parents and a missed opportunity to be a family, even though the campers are too young to understand that.

Children younger than 16 should not be allowed to have Facebook, Instagram, or Snapchat accounts. It is understandable that parents want them to have phones to so they can contact their child and give their child the ability to stay in touch with friends, but when it comes to social media, children are becoming captivated, developing bad habits that are difficult to break. Although staying in touch with friends is important, it does not need to happen over social media accounts. If you grow up talking to friends through Snapchat or texting, how do you manage an uncomfortable situation that is face to face? Person to person interaction requires self-­confidence, eye contact and the ability to read body language.

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The earlier a child is introduced to entertaining electronic devices, the worse it is. By the age of 21 the human brain’s development slows, which means that everything that happens in the years before is extremely important. From birth to 18 the human brain develops many different types of neurons. To help this development, children have colorful toys with textures and buttons that make different sounds when you press them. Replacing this variety of sensations with a flat screen and bright colors means that a child may not have the chance to develop all of the neural pathways they otherwise would have, and they won’t be able to use their imagination to its fullest extent.

By breaking the bad habit of always looking at our phones, we could change the way our generation and future generations interact. Conversations will occur, eye contact will be made, people will have the courage to say what they want in person instead of hiding behind a screen, and we will gain or maintain important skills.

Sueann Barsh ‘17

Leo Yoshinaga ‘18

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H OW TO P ROCTOR THE F RESHMEN — S ILVER K EY

"Josh welcome back to school! You will be proctoring the freshmen floor this year. Have fun!" This was what I was told when arriving back to campus for my senior year at Vermont Academy. I remember thinking that proctoring the freshmen would be hard, but what came at me was much more difficult and time consuming than I ever thought was possible. The beast that was the freshmen floor was so unpredictable and elusive that even the greatest proctor of all time would have difficulty keeping them under control. So, here is your guide on how to control the freshmen floor.

The trick that a person must know about the freshmen floor is that you can not be overly friendly with them. Do not be deceived by their cheeky smiles and energetic personalities. As happy and nice as they may seem on their first day of school, they are equally manipulative and malicious. You will find on the first day of school that there are no problems with any of the kids and naively think that you can be friends with them, but you can not do this until later. My problems started with being too nice and not starting with a firm enough grip over them. I should have been a proctor first then evolved into a companion to them rather than trying to be a companion and a proctor at the same time. I am naturally a nice person and like to try and please people, but I came to realize trying to please them would be impossible. There are times that you will have to step out of your comfort zone to lay down the law. There were times where I had to tell kids to calm down, tell them to leave someone’s room, or even yell at them… (Sorry Brock). You will also have to tell kids to do trash and they will try and deny that it is their turn, but you must tell them they have to do it. That five minutes of berating the freshmen is better than five minutes of the dorm parents berating you about the trash. If the kids are not behaving you must have a dorm meeting and tell them as a collective group what must happen to improve life on the floor. Getting mad at a big group is not easy, but to be an effective proctor you must know how to run these dorm meetings efficiently. As you become better at dorm meetings, the floor starts to become easier to run.

The next part that you will have to learn is to deal with kids that are living away from home for the first time. Most of the freshmen are 14 years old sprinkled in with kids that are 13 and 15. As you can imagine, this age group is still maturing. The first month on the floor feels like a month long sleep over. They are sleepy all day, but when “lights out” comes around they seem to have new life. They sit silently in their room for 5 minutes and when they know the dorm parent is back in their apartment the freshmen come out to play. They are going back and forth playing video games or socializing with each other testing their new freedoms. That is when you must go into their room and tell them that they need to go to bed and give them the statistics on why they go to bed early. The classic line I would get from Robin was, “Yeah ok buddy”, which was basically what I was told by all the freshmen. Eventually, they learned that there was a direct correlation between them going to bed earlier and having a

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good day at school. As the school year goes on you will notice that the kids also need people that can offer them advice. They are trying to learn in a high paced prep school with not much experience in life, so naturally they will have their problems. There are different levels of questions and they start at how do you tie a tie to how do I keep my roommate from being depressed. The kids will come to you because they know you are someone that they can trust without worrying about getting in trouble or feeling stupid. You must take time to understand their questions because they took the time to ask their question.

Make sure that you give them good advice because the last thing that you want is a kid saying, “Josh told me to tie a tie like this”, and they have their tie somewhere between being tied and looking like they got strangled by an alien.

Of course some of the questions are going to be hard, but you just have to give them the best answer possible.They will ask you questions that you will not know how to answer because, even though you may have more life experience, they may encounter different situations than yourself. You must be confident when giving them an answer to the question to make them feel confident as well. You will have good judgement because you are the freshmen proctor which means Vermont Academy trusts you so do not be afraid of the answer that you give. The most memorable moments on my floor was giving advice to a saddened 14 year old, and helping them through tough situations. This is how you grow the connections on the floor and make everyone stronger.

Many people may not realize this, but it is good to have fun with the freshmen from time to time. It might be strange being the only upperclassmen on a floor of only freshmen, so getting to know them makes your time on the floor better.

In the first weeks encourage them to get out of the dorm and explore Vermont Academy. Try and get them to go to the first school dance of the year because that's where they will start to meet more kids and they will start to be more involved in the community. I tried this last year, but when I walked in and I turned around to talk to them they all were running back up the stairs to get away from the dance as fast as possible. So, if you get them to the dance make sure that they stay and enjoy the atmosphere. Make sure to go around when there is free time and hang out in someone’s room for a while and just be someone that they see as a person, not just a proctor. Having them know that you are not there to just boss them around goes a long way with the freshmen. The big event you must try to win is winter carnival. Honestly, the freshmen floor will probably never win winter carnival just because they are not at their athletic peak where most of the other floors are. You can still get them to believe that they can win though because they have never gone through a winter carnival before. You guys can steal the lip sync, you guys can win the participation points, and you can win all the obscure events. Just make sure you give it your all and by the end of it, after you find out that the floor has lost, you can go back and see how fired up the floor is. Seeing them be so excited about how well they did is a reward for yourself, but also a reward for them. For them to come together and create the memories that they did is an

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achievement and something that they will remember for a lifetime. Throughout the year do not be afraid to mess with the kids on the floor from time to time.

As Jason Kimball and Nate Baker know, messing with your proctor and messing with them back is something that is in good spirit and makes your time on the floor more enjoyable. The prime time for this mayhem to happen is the winter time just because everyone is on the floor, so the creativity is at it’s all time high. The more time that you spend having fun with the freshmen the more fun the year will be for everyone on the floor.

As your time winds down at VA and you start to get excited to move on with the next chapter of your life you will think of the freshmen that you proctored.

You start to realize that next year you will be one of the freshmen no matter where you go. If you go to college, take a gap year, or go into the workforce you will be new and fresh. You will be full of questions and probably will be nervous. The times one the floor and the unlikely friends that you have made will help you realize that there is nothing to fear and that you are ready for the next part of your life. Whenever a rookie question pops up in your mind you will know that it is ok to ask someone with experience. When an opportunity to be foolish arises you will be able to say no because you know how frustrating it is to deal with problems. Living with the freshmen has taught much more than you could ever imagine. My final piece of advice is when you graduate and you are saying your goodbyes to everyone make sure to say goodbye to the freshmen. You will find yourself having a tough time saying goodbye because so much time of your last year at Vermont Academy was spent with these hoodlums. You will talk to them and realize how much they have grown up since the first day they arrived on campus and smile thinking about the first day you meet them. When you pack up all of your stuff and are ready to leave, look down the hallway one last time and remember all the times you had to yell at someone, all the times you spent having dorm meetings, all the times you were able to help them, all the times you spent time with them because you were too lazy to walk up the stairs, and all the good times you never thought you would have. You will realize that proctoring the freshmen was the greatest gift disguised as a curse. I promise that if you followed all my advice that after you are done looking down the hallway you will be heavy hearted, but as you turn to leave your duty on A2 you will smile and will say affectionately, “Those crazy freshmen.”

Tanner Dalton PG

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Oona Nieminen ‘19

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S MALL A CTIONS L EADING T O L ARGE R ESULTS — S ILVER K EY

Most people in this line of work would agree with me on this, but everything you do in, on and around the ambulance is a small action that is going to be a large result. In fact, it all starts off with possibly the smallest action. An ounce of thumb pressure on a rubber coated plastic button, and one short breath of “Londonderry Ambulance 945 show me acknowledging the call”. That’s all it takes to change your life. To change a patient's life. That quick, utter of acknowledgment, which seems to just blend into one word after a while. Who ever knew that by signing your code onto a radio, you are now responsible for whatever life is on the other side of that 911 call.

Every emergency worker has their day of “realization” I guess you could call it, I’m not sure how else to word it. For me, it was a situation just as above.

The call was for a male fallen in the frozen food aisle of the grocery store. One of the simplest possible calls one could sign on to. I figured it would be me pulling someone up. A simple “how ya doin, here ya go, see ya later”. It was, until there was no pulse. And no breathing, and no movement. Twenty five minutes of pumping on someone's chest. Twenty five minutes of being someone else's lungs for them. And twenty five minutes of this, only to realise that the person never had a chance anyway. Ten minutes of trying to shock him, then five minutes of looking for a heartbeat, then two minutes of talking to med control, then one minute of a weeping wife asking all of us to join hands around a motionless body to say a prayer.

It all turned into one very sad wife asking me to cut a lock of a dead man's hair off so she can have something to hold on to. A man who walked into a store on a Sunday morning with the inclination to buy a small frozen pizza, ended up buying a one way ticket on a gurney out the door with no intention of bringing him back home. In this job, every single large result, stems from that one, miniscule action. But that miniscule action, turns into one lifetime of memories.

James Gallagher ‘17

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T HE D AY I G REW U P – S ILVER K EY

An adult has a clear understanding on life and death and can see that no one in this world is alone or immune from the hand of death. A child cannot see these things. Life to a child has different values, it is more materialistic and death is something not understood at all. Understanding death is the first big challenge in every man and woman’s lifetime. For me, this came at age 15 when my Grandmother passed away suddenly.

Her passing was extremely tough for me. I had lost pets before, and my Aunt’s Grandfather passed away when I was younger but this was my first big loss, and it was hard for me to understand. This is where there is a clear difference between a child and an adult. A child is sad but they do not understand that this is part of the cruel cycle of life that we as people are forced to endure. I was devastated, I knew she was gone but I could not believe it. All my love for her was shrouded by shear confusion and frustration for what happened. We were all shocked by the suddenness of her passing and saying goodbye was especially hard.

My Parents, my brothers, and I all flew out to attend her funeral service. My Mother approached me with the idea of me playing Amazing Grace on my trumpet at the funeral. She said it was entirely up to me and no one would be upset if I didn’t play but that it would be something that my Grandmother would’ve wanted. I decided I would do it. When it was time to play, I opened my trumpet case, withdrew my instrument, inserted the mouthpiece and walked to the front of the chapel. I turned and faced the people, all of whom experiencing loss alongside me. I saw my cousins, my aunts, my uncles, my brothers, my grandfather, my parents, I saw people I had never seen before but I knew we were all connected through my Grandmother.

This was the first time I felt a deep intertwinement through the love and loss of one person. The feeling was overwhelming, as a child I stood in the front of the church with fear and sadness coursing through my body.

After what felt like hours, I lifted my trumpet to my lips and began to play. With each note I felt the support of my family flow through me. As I played I learned that life is simply a process of dying. Life is the short amount of time that we are given to experience the world with the people we love and care for;; the loss of someone isn’t always a bad thing but sometimes a beautiful thing. All the people gathered in the small church were there for the same reasons, to express their love for my Grandmother and to give their support to others. I realized that in life we all experience the same wins, the same losses, we all survive in the same sadistic yet somehow beautiful world together.

Just as I finished gaining a vast knowledge of understanding what it means to live and die, I finished the song. I pulled the trumpet away from my lips and looked at all of the teary faces. From this moment on, life was changed;; I had grown up over the course of one song. I could see all of the beauty in the world and I could understand that experiencing death occurs in

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everyone’s lifetime. I walked off the stage no longer a child, I became a man that day and every day since I remember the lessons I learned in a church full of loving people.

Henry Burns ‘17

Zoee Blossom ‘19

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T HE A IREDALE P ROJECT — S ILVER K EY

I wondered if I might drown in the rain. I could feel it penetrating through the fabric of my clothing, seeping into my skin as if I were the blue sponge I used to clean the sinks last Monday. Though I had thought of almost everything else, I had not brought a rain jacket. Upon consideration, however, I doubted that I would have chosen to wear it if I had. I had, after all, made the questionable decision to go out barefoot, even after my mother strictly ordered me to put my shoes on “under penalty of a most gruesome death.” It was my argument that the mud would demolish what was little left of my sneakers, as they were a motley pair. Held together only by duct tape that had been affixed ages ago, now peeling and torn, any normal person would have thrown them away. But they come in handy, especially on occasions like these, occasions when you’re going to end up getting your hands, (and feet) dirty, and yell in the rain at someone who is past listening to you, and doesn’t really care that your naked feet are freezing, because on one of the ever-­ so-­rare instances that you should be wearing those damn shoes that everyone’s told you to chuck in the trash, you made the decision to leave them inside, because you didn’t want to ruin them. And by the time I became aware of my obvious missteps in logic, the time for me to grab any necessities was over. The need for someone, anyone, was dire. And it seemed as though that someone was going to be me today.

Her teeth were chattering. I rolled my eyes. My patience had worn thin years ago. Any sympathy, any compassion that I had left for this once maternal figure was gone. I stared at the pathetic outline with a restrained contempt.

She clung desperately to the tree, her dark eyes conveying to me a sort of terror that comes right after awakening from a nightmare, not yet certain of which reality was tangible.

“Come inside.” I fixed my face into what I hoped was a pleasant smile. “Come into the house with me. You’ll get sick out here. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

I doubted it. Physically, she was healthy. And Lord knows, she had a go-­down-­ fighting personality.

Out of the corner of my eye, I detected movement. I sighed, redirecting my gaze to the blue house a mere twenty feet away. Though it was only seven and a summer evening, the clouds completely obscured the sun, shrouding the home in a cloak of gray, lit up only by the lamps spilling gold from the windows. My grandfather had pulled back a frothy lace curtain to peer at us, his beady eyes darting this way and that, observing the strange spectacle we must have been. My dark hair tossing in the wind, billowing about like dark seaweed, flying into my face and eyes. My grandmother gazing at me as if I was Lucifer himself, that I had come to take her away into a blazing fiery hell, and that she could somehow jump the chain link fence, its once sole purpose to keep in unruly dogs was now to keep her contained, that she could run through the yard past me to that awkward point where property dissolved into woods, dark, uncertain.

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God light, white and blinding, engulfed me, then died. The fear of being electrocuted surrounded me and I spoke now. With more urgency.

“Grandma, Listen. We have to go inside. The storm’s here.”

She ignored me, the rain streaming down her face like ethereal tears that would never, ever, stop, that would continue on throughout infinity until we were both gone and dead. In the darkness, with her face illuminated only by shadow and soft light, the water appeared to wash away the lines, the age, everything, and for a minute she looked young. Young enough to be in her thirties, young enough to be well.

I have strange thoughts in the rain.

“Oliver.” She murmured.

“What?”

“Oliver.” She looked up at me, her eyes blazing with a hatred and a vengeance I was unaccustomed to, and I stepped back, wary. I knew that she could hurt me, if she wanted to. She had before. And after all, I was alone.

“Oliver is out here.” She announced, gazing fearfully about here, waiting for the yard to close in and swallow her whole, choking her down until she reached the very core of the earth, where the sun never warmed cheeks and the rain never replaced sweat. “And when I find him, he and I are leaving. We can’t be here any longer. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t sound sorry at all.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, I can’t be here any longer. We need to leave. “She paused, turning her thoughts over in her head. “We…” I sighed. She was lost again.

“My dog. Oliver.”

Oliver was dead. He had been dead for a year. Sweet dog, good dog, and he held out for as long as he could. He did it for Grandma. He stayed with her until his brown fur was mingled with white and his blood thinned and drained and his legs became useless extremities that flopped. He had to wear a blue jacket with a handle so that you could haul him up when he needed to go so somewhere. And I always said he was an angel, because he let her hold him and love him and wrap him in towels and do all sorts of mixed up shit like that and he simply sat there and looked past her and to me with his chocolate brown eyes. I wonder how much of a soul was really contained in that dog.

When he died she was devastated, but she forgot almost as quickly as she began to cry.

And like everything else the rain began to wash away her fury, and her helplessness, and all emotion on her face began to fade away as we stood there I the rain. The sky cracked and shattered the stars hidden behind the crowd, and my grandmother began to weep. I edged closer, slowly putting my arms around the woman I had known my whole life, a woman who now recoiled from my touch, but I held her close anyway, even though I had lost her long ago.

“Take your hands off me.” She whispered. “Please. I just want to go home.”

“But you are home, “I said softly. “ 246 Sleep Hollow-­”

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She blinked, and breathed a sigh of relief. The storm had ceased.

“Grand Rapids, Michigan” she finished.

She smiled at me, and for a minute her eyes searched mine, grasping for something familiar, some reminder of who I was maybe, or why I was there.

Her eyes were expectant and waiting.

But I had stopped trying to resurface her memory long ago.

As we trekked through the rain towards the house, I felt grandmother’s body shudder. She was looking behind here, past the place we had come, past the fence and into the trees. And beyond the trees, there was only the dark, and the rain.

“He’s past the fence. He’s escaped. He’s free.”

I looked into the dark. Something was moving, certainly, something in the night. Running farther and farther into the shadow until it had disappeared entirely, leaving us alone in the cold looking back at the shape that had vanished into the trees.

My grandmother looked away, then shook her head. She had already forgotten.

I have strange thoughts in the rain.

I turned away. A deer, I tried to tell myself. A stray. I looked back. Once again the whip snapped across the sky and I grinned.

Let him run, I prayed. Let him run across the fields and sands of Michigan one last time and let him be free. Before you catch him and he must ascend once again to the stars let him say goodbye, and let him run away when none of us can. Let him feel the wind against his body and give him this night to fly, the angel that he was, that he is, just one of the angels that we have lost and yet still so important because what does it matter that he has these mere seconds left to sprint, let them come out of their houses to watch and marvel at him, the flying dog, or no, maybe, really, the dog in the dark, in the shadows, only to emerge in a brilliant light, a reminder of yesterday, a brief memory, a brief recognition lasting only a second, before scattering into a brilliance of stars and climbing beyond the sky and into the universe.

For in the morning the rain will have washed him away.

Maureen Hughes ‘19

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D EAR D AD — G OLD K EY Dear Dad, Daddy, Father, Pops,

What would I have called you, had you survived to see me sixteen, going on seventeen? What would you call me? Would we fight often? Would you scare off the boys I like, and wait up for me, and tell embarrassing stories?

Would I appreciate you, or would I take you for granted? It’s Father’s Day today, and I have no one to buy an ugly tie for. It’s Father’s Day today, and I have no one to call. It hurts, sometimes, to think of what I cannot have, what others give no thought to having. I cry sometimes, when I think of what could have been, when I dream about you lifting me onto your shoulders, then remember that you never saw me too big to lift. I was a little girl at eight years old, half a lifetime ago, wearing my hair in pigtails Mom styled and dresses with bows and ruffles. I am sixteen now, nearly a woman grown, wearing ponytails I do myself and skinny jeans some days, dresses others. I wear glasses now, because I didn’t inherit your sight, but instead the shape of your eyes. I wear a bracelet that reminds me to be brave, something you taught by example. I wear a cross now, that your sister gave me, and dog tags with your name on them. I’m a little obsessed with red lipstick and all colours of yarn, and I still spell like you did, when I’m not thinking. I play the violin, like Mom, and try to play the guitar, like you, and I sing, for me. I do crew, like you, and squash, which is kind of like racquetball. Would you have come to my matches? I think you would have, cheering me on and bringing me to practices. You would insist I practice guitar more, and that we ski as much as possible. You probably wouldn’t like that I snowboard, but Dad, I’m not one of those snowboarders. Would you still wear shorts in the winter, and have a Tiva tan so bad it lasts until next summer? Would we have a welcome home routine, a good night routine, a morning routine? Would you teach me how to cook? I’m looking at colleges now, and my top choice is Cambridge. Would you like that? I want to work at the FBI as a criminal profiler. What would you think? My life is so different than how it could have been, and I have so many questions, so many what if’s that I’ll never know the answer to. I’m tearing up a little, now, because I miss you so much, and I don’t fully know if I miss you or having a dad. I think I miss a mix of both. It’s hard to think of what could have been if only, if only, if only. I miss you. I love you. I know you love me too, and still would if only you were alive today.

Love you always, Your daughter

Caitlyn McDermott ‘18

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R OWING YOU SAY? — S ILVER K EY “Rowing. You say?”

The head coach for the Rumsey Hall boys’ crew was vigorously nodding his head up and down at me, while I absentmindedly shifted my weight from one foot to the other, a nervous habit I had developed over the past year as I interviewed for prep school admission.

I heard him repeat what he had just told me: “You will row on our crew.”

Throughout my interview process at Rumsey Hall, I had been told more than once that I was “built” to row. As an 8th grader, I was about six feet tall and probably 140 pounds. And I was on this crew coach’s radar. I had no knowledge of this sport of rowing, no reference point to grab onto and gauge an appropriate and respectable reaction to this coach’s enthusiasm. So I matched his excitement with my own and agreed with him. I was a rower! I heard myself committing to this burly and intimidating coach, “I will row! I am looking forward to it!” while shaking his hand firmly, and wondering, albeit secretly, what in the world I had just signed on for. If I had known that day, what I know now, five years later, I wouldn’t change a thing.

On a blustery, wet, and dreary March afternoon in Connecticut, I am making my way up the steep hill leading to the schools gym, dodging patches of ice and snow still stubbornly clinging to the pavement. Today was the first day of crew tryouts and I am mentally preparing. I am also very nervous. This coach was determined I would row, and I would not let him down. The man was exuberant about rowing and his passion was infectious, contagious even.

Some students could be heard whispering the coach was insane;; a ruthless coach, driving his athletes to be the best rowers, and beat the competition regardless of any pain and exhaustion incurred by the rowers. I feel determined like I have never been before.

As I enter the gym, I hear the roar of the blades as they churn the water in the indoor rowing tanks. It is a powerful, whoosh, slide, whoosh, sound that reverberated through my stomach. My body seemed to vibrate with this sound.

I feel an urgency to get to where this noise is coming from, and bear witness to the machine, the noise, and the athletes. I had a visceral reaction to that thunderous sound. I will never forget that first moment, the first time feeling that sound. It still happens today, five years later, every time I dip my blade into the water and my crew pulls back. The roar of the blades, the slide of the seats as metal grinds on metal, and the slicing of a smooth as glass hull as it begins to glide across the flat water. I become part of the boat, the blade, and the crew. Differentiation no longer exists. Rowing is a beautiful, graceful ballet between athlete, boat, and the water we race on. It is also brutal and unforgiving.

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The tryout would last two hours that first day, to continue on through the rest of the week, as one by one, athletes were eliminated, or they dropped out, due to the extreme test of physical endurance, mental exhaustion, and the sheer insanity of the grueling practices. Each day I present myself for more testing, more abuse to my body, muscles, and hands. The determination to be selected grew each day regardless of the pain I was feeling, or the mounting blisters on my palms due to the constant gripping and pulling of the oars. I feel a connection to the sport, like I have never had previously. I have a deep respect for the coach. For the first time in my young life, I am experiencing a sense of place, of belonging to something, and of being a valued contributor. I am a rower.

My advisor noticed my determination, and my pain. He cheers me on, supporting my efforts daily with short pep talks, during the tryout week. One evening as I am all but crawling back to my dorm, hunched over from the weight of my backpack, sweaty from the practice, and cold from the fierce New England winds, he slowly approaches in the school golf cart. He stops, and gestures silently for me to hop in for a ride. We are silent companions as we ride down the hill. We both seem to understand that there are no words necessary. He simply understands what I am doing, and what I needed. He stops off briefly at his house, while I wait, crouched down inside of my warm hoodie, my raw and blistered hands tucked inside my sleeves to protect them from the cold March winds. When he returns, he hands me a tube of Icy Hot, and gives me a light pat on the back. We continue our drive to my dorm where he drops me off at the door. “Take a long, hot shower, Shawn to ease the tension in your muscles. Apply this Icy Hot liberally, and get some sleep tonight. “ I thank him. I am so grateful for his care, and his thoughtfulness, but mostly, for his validation. I didn’t know it then, but I know now, this was a turning point in my life;; I was pivoting from childhood to an adult. I was learning what determination and grit felt like;; and how much a coach, and a teacher’s belief in me, their validation in my efforts, truly meant. These adults in my life were my motivation to get through this week of tryouts, and unbeknownst to me at the time, they would become my lifelong role models.

The week ended, and all the cuts were made. The final roster was posted in the gym. Many are bitterly disappointed, and many had simply given up days before. As I look at the neatly typed list, using my bandaged and taped fingers to slide down the list of names, searching for mine, silently chanting a mantra, “Please be there, please be there” as I slid my finger down, down, down the paper, I see it. Merrill, Shawn—Novice. I made it! I am on the rowing team! I had done it! Hot tears pooled in my eyes, as I expel the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I made it.

I run from the gym, ignoring the protest from every muscle in my body, crashing through the double doors, and down the hill, in search of my advisor.

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I need to share the news with him right now. The urgency to tell him I had been successful in obtaining a seat on the team is overwhelming. When I rush into his office, the warm heat enveloping me, I cannot keep the ridiculous smile from my face. One look at me and he knows. His face lit up as he smiles and says, “Congratulations, Shawn! You made it.” The tears from the happiness and the relief threaten to spill onto my cheeks again, as he hugs me and extends further words of validation in reaching my goal. He was right. I made it.

Shawn Merrill ‘17

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M Y C AMERA — G OLD K EY

It was late July when my friend Simon and I took our first road trip. Our plan was to visit a friend in the northwest part of Maine before heading to Acadia National Park on the coast, all the while stopping to fly fish in rivers along the way. The day before, I had visited a local thrift shop in search of a 35mm camera, and to my surprise I found a fully outfitted Olympus OM10, with an unused roll of black-­and-­white film included.

As we drove, windows down and music playing, I addressed the fact that I didn’t know how to properly use a film camera. I have always loved trying and creating new things, from woodworking to welding, but this enthusiasm has sometimes led to interesting problems, most notably when I tried to rebuild my first road bike from scratch, only to bring it back to the mechanic in pieces.

Throwing myself into trial and error situations has always been a conscious and satisfying choice.

The first order of business was to get batteries. We stopped at a convenience store in Bangor, and with the clerk’s help, after a few minutes of turning knobs, the camera clicked into life. My first picture was of a veteran in a wheelchair, his husky beside him. The man asked where I got my camera, and after telling us about the Olympus he had owned, he posed for another picture, grinning with a “thumbs up.” As Simon and I left, we too smiled, delighted by this chance encounter.

Leaving Bangor, as Simon pulled up to a stoplight, I scanned the horizon with my lens. As I panned to my right, the truck driver next to us threw out a big smile and a wink. After I snapped his picture, he rolled down his window and shouted, “Howdy,” this time posing for us. As we both drove off, we all laughed at the simple joy that can come from such a thing as a camera.

Over the next days of driving we took many photographs of our encounters on the Maine roads. Drivers, passengers, road workers, and even dogs with their ears and tongues flapping in the wind, had a story to tell. It was a wonderful way to meet and share an unexpected experience with a fellow traveler.

When I arrived home days later, my Olympus in hand, I was eager to develop my pictures, to relive, in black-­and-­white, the faces of Maine. When I opened the back of the camera, to my surprise the film was still neatly rolled up. I had not pushed the opening end of the roll of film all the way into the take-­up spool, and consequently it had fallen out, and I had not captured a single photograph. I sat down, dismayed. When I told my parents what had happened, I recounted each of those lovely interactions: my first picture of the man with his dog, the trucker at the stoplight, the construction worker with the beard, the child in the backseat with her face pressed against the window. All these people, these faces, their images were lost. But as I thought about my trip, I marveled at how I had encountered all these people and appreciated, even just for a brief moment, who they were.

This summer my jubilant spirit and appetite to explore and create led to this small failure, and in turn, the larger realization that though a picture may be

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worth a thousand words, a memory is worth more. The renowned American photographer Dorothea Lange once remarked, “The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.” While I have no photographs to show for it, my trip left me with a trove of memories and experiences that need not be captured in film. Dorothea Lange’s words rang true;; my camera taught me to see without it.

Mackey O'Keefe ‘17

Mackey O’Keefe ‘17

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S TRENGTH IS F OUND IN A LTITUDE — S ILVER K EY I’ve always thought I was tough, strong physically and mentally. I thought I could do anything no problem. This past summer was a test to that. My dad and I decided to face the looming 10,781 feet Mount Baker that stood in the clouds above Seattle, Washington. I had no worries because I've had a lot of climbing experience and I thought it would be similar to indoor rock climbing.

That all changed from the time we reached the base of the monster. I never back down from a challenge yet I've never been tested so hard until the day I stared a mountain down in the face.

Mount Baker is the snowiest mountain in the world but It started out with nice weather and a easy hike for the first couple hours, I was feeling confident.

At about 4,000 feet the grass started to disappear under the snow. It was getting rockier, steeper and colder. I was starting to get tired but we were only 2,000 more feet until basecamp. Those last few hours felt like days, my legs were burning and my 60 pound pack felt like it was two times as heavy. I wasn't the only one in pain when one of the guys said he couldn't go any more, he was barely keeping up. His pack was 20 pounds heavier than mine so I decided to switch packs with him to make it easier for him. After pushing and pushing we finally made it to camp. I just wanted to fall down on the soft pillow like snow and sleep facing the blue sky. My longing and high hopes for rest came to a abrupt stop when our guide told us of a big storm was coming our way. We scrambled to set up our tents and burry our food and supplies in the deep snow. My whole body ached and shivered 1as we prepared for the long tough night ahead of us.

The night came and everything went white it seemed as if I was standing inside a ping pong ball, every direction around me was painted white. Days went by only to wait out the storm and on the third day we had a 9 hour window to summit or we would never make it to the top. Two a.m. hit and the time came to shoot for the summit,we had a 8 hour gap so we had to start early. All six climbers hooked into each other with rope so we all would have each others backs and from there I was determined yet I had fear of failure.

From the darkness in front of me and the cold air squeezing my lungs I knew this would be tough. The first couple hours were just a high altitude hike through the snow,and then the ice walls grew closer. My confidence grew as I would plunge my feet into the ice and climb until my teammate behind me slipped. His rope pulled me down quickly. He was dangling from the wall and I used all my strength to hold on and pull his weight. Many things went through my head at that moment which seemed like a lifetime. I wondered how long it would be until he got back on the wall, and how long I could last. I wasn't going to let anyone down, I pulled up so he could catch his feet and we were off again. I was becoming fatigue and knew we weren't even half way up. My hands were going numb yet i felt like a leader among these climbers even though they were twice my age, and i was not going to let them down.

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The last steps to the top of the world were the most relieving and proudest moments of my life. The feeling of accomplishing an actual mountain and my biggest challenge was breathtaking. All the muscle aches, numb hands, shaking body was worth every second just to stand on top of the world for a short ten minutes.

Nathan Smith ‘18

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T HE W ORLD OF M ELODY U NBEKNOWNST TO M E – S ILVER K EY

I started exploring the world of melody and harmony in high school. The beautiful performance I witnessed on the day of the cabaret in my freshman year inspired me to overcome the invisible hands of fear that shackled me to the audience seat. Everyone is afraid of being rejected on stage. Yet, watching the Jazz Ensemble performance that night compelled me to pursue the sight that one cannot see from an audience seat. The musicians that beamed down at the audience after their performance piqued my curiosity. What kind of scenery did those performers see as they looked out? Inspired, I joined Jazz Ensemble as a guitarist and embarked on my musical adventure while searching for an answer to whether I was fated to be a spectator. The innocent me that stumbled into the first practice was shocked when I learned that I was the only one who couldn’t read music, despite having taught myself guitar for five years. Yet, I didn’t want to quit since I was steadfast about coming out of the shadow and making an identity for myself through music. I had always thought of music as much more than a collection of sounds—it is a message inscribed with feelings conveyed to one another-­-­ and so I persisted through countless practices and was justly rewarded with a solo, which I performed brilliantly in the cabaret. The solo affirmed my ability to achieve greater things than I thought I ever could. My passion for music continued to grow, as I started a band comprised of two Chinese and three Americans who loved music the same way I did. As the day of our debut, the winter cabaret, approached, we practiced together ceaselessly to achieve impeccable harmony. I felt tremendous pressure because I knew I could succeed, that I could perform flawlessly onstage if I could overcome the fear. The symptoms of stage fright kicked in weeks before the performance. I was suffering, but the idea that I could connect to people through my music fueled my diligence. I was afraid of going onstage, just like everyone would be, but I took the first step to overcoming it. Many people believe they are destined to play the role of a spectator, and that conviction inhibits them from reaching higher. The night of the performance, my fingers were shaking vigorously. The lead part of the song “Canon Rock”, composed by JerryC, was challenging, exacerbating my stage fright. The stage director ran through the program once before the actual performance. I couldn’t control my fingers and my heart pounded faster and faster. The sound I made was unbearable, aggravating my anxiety. By the time the audience poured into the auditorium, I was praying with my blank mind. On stage, my fingers were trembling, so I took a deep breath before sounding the first note. The slight pain on the tip of my fingers as they slid up the fret of the guitar ensured me my fingers moved way I wanted. The next thing I remember was being half way through the song. When the last note faded, I felt an exceptional sense of relief. All the hard work I had put into practicing the song ceaselessly for months was condensed into a 5-­minute performance. The last note resonating in the auditorium was a message speaking to my dedication and satisfaction. The echo of the audience's

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applause filled the auditorium like the sound of heavy rain and left me wondering if I had inspired anyone, just as I had been inspired as a freshman.

The spotlight shone down onto the stage like gleaming stars casting a shadow of my new identity. As the cabaret concluded, the silhouette of my past self sitting in the audience vanished, reminding me that every individual has the potential to achieve great things, and it is not solely the result of talent. It is courage and perseverance.

Chanapat Temsartis ‘17

Oona Nieminen ‘19

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Zoee Blossom ‘19

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Zhenjing Gui ‘17

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Tao “Jenny” Zhen ‘18, 2, 3, 29 Whitney Barrett, 2 Sueann Barsh ‘17, 40 Zoee Blossom ‘19, 47, 59 Jahyde Bullard ‘17, 39 Ryan Burch, 2 Henry Burns ‘17, 46 Adaline Catlin ‘17, 15, 26, 27 Anna Connerty ‘18, 28 Jakob Curtis ‘19, 23, 25, 27 Tanner Dalton PG, 14, 43 Tomas Deveault ‘18, 29 Robert Ferreira ‘18, 22, 23 Miranda Fuller ‘19, 31, 37 Joanne Fuller, 2 James Gallagher ‘17, 45 Nadya Grisczenkow ‘18, 19 Zhenjing Gui ‘17, 63

Henry Hochschild ‘17, 21 Maureen Hughes ‘19, 19, 50 Sam Kendrick ‘19, 33 Jiwoo Lee ‘18, 13 Caitlyn McDermott ‘18, 25, 51 Lisa McNealus, 2 Shawn Merrill ‘17, 53 Oona Nieminen ‘19, 44 Mackey O'Keefe ‘17, 55 Patrick Ogden ‘19, 58, 61 Scott Restivo ‘18, 18 Sydney Royce ‘18, 9 Nathan Smith ‘18, 13, 57 Eleanor Stetson ‘19, 7 Will Svensson ‘18, 11 Chanapat Temsartis ‘17, 58 Ethan Wing ‘17, 21 Leo Yoshinaga ‘18, 22, 40