Westminster Christian School Literary Magazine, "In the Eye of the Storm."

roots

In the

EYe OF THE STORM

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.”

Isaiah 43:1-2

Table of Contents 2. Thank You & About the Judges 4. About the Theme 5. “The Desolate Brute” by Nina Cuesta 6. This Year’s Winners 10. “In the Eye of the Storm”

by Reese de Moya 12. “Lost at Sea” by Kayla Perry 13. “In the Eye of the Storm”

33. “After Audra” by Katrina Bobson 34. “Can Only Go Up” by Kiki Simmons 35. “In the Eye of the Storm”

by Lili Diaz-Silveira 36. Andrea Escobio 37. “From Above” by Bianca Diaz-Silveira 38. “Social Storm” by Jalyn Cronkite 40. Nina Cuesta

by Isabella Artiles 14. “Rock Bottom” by Alexa Torres 16. “Life as I See It” by Charis Davis 17. “Structured Upheaval”

by Velentina Stromeyer 18. “The Totality of Decimation”

by Morgan “Snowy” Deville 19. “Eye” by Ailani Pittack 20. “The Locker” by Blake Davidson 21. “Fleeing Nicaragua”

by Elizabeth Pierson 22. “In the Eye of the Storm”

by Daniela Canales 23. Katrina Bobson 25. “Facing the Storm”

by Natalia Milo 26. Anderson Bryan 27. “A Lesson Never Forgotten”

by Marcelo Nunez 28. Nico Hidalgo 28. Madison Hendrikse 29. “Just Reach” by Krista Hannon 30. “Clinging” by Nina Rico 32. Stella Hamann

41. AJ Gonzalez 42. “Convergence” by Christopher Bobson 43. Logan Lopez 44. Ana Carolina Ortiz 45. Kyle Wright 48. “The Walk” by Sara V. Fernandez 49. About Sara V. Fernandez 50. About Elisabeth Campbell 51. “Metaphors” by Elisabeth Campbell 54. Mr. Matt Dubocq 55. “The Rescue” by Mrs. Angela Castano 55. About Mrs. Angela Castano 56. “Watching Over Me”

by Mrs. April Sharpe-Shirk 57. About Mrs. April Sharpe-Shirk 57. “Hope>Cost” by April Sharpe-Shirk 60. “Flaming Hot Cheetos” by Ana Vega 61. About Ana Vega 62. “Winter” by Gianna Birkeland 63. About Gianna Birkeland 64. “I Heard the Thunder Roll”

by Austin Jones 65. About Austin Jones 66. Final Note from Mrs. Angela Castano

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Thank You Thank you to all the students, staff and alumni who contributed stories, poems, artwork and photography to our magazine. You have blessed us with your vulnerability, giftedness, and truly amazing work. May we all be inspired by your contributions to seek God through difficult times.

This magazine would not be possible without the endless support of our wonderful High School Principal, Alex Gonzalez, the Fine Arts Director, Donna Underwood, the Media Center Director, Kathy Ramirez, our amazing High School art teachers, April Sharpe and Daniela Rojas, our always energetic Photography teacher, Kim Comber, and the ever-supportive English Department that promoted the contest.

This year, we had two judges pick the first and second place winners in the competition.

Prose and poetry entries were judged by our Ms. Mary Lopez, and art and photography was judged by renowned Miami artist, Tom Virgin.

Ms. Mary Lopez Judge: Poetry & Prose

Mary Lopez currently teaches English at Westminster Christian School. She earned her Master’s in English Literature at the University of Central Florida in 2017 and has three years of experience teaching First-Year Composition and Literature courses. She is also an avid Disney-enthusiast and pet-mom.

She was very pleased with the submissions of the competition and was glad to help judge. She is excited to join the literary magazine’s team as a sponsor next year and help further the legacy of “Roots”.

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Tom Virgin Judge: Art & Photography Miami artist Tom Virgin’s work spans a range of media from prints and book arts, to sculpture and public works. Two degrees in printmaking, over a decade of residencies in artist’s communities/National Parks, and a parallel career teaching art in Title I Public High Schools for over 20 years have nurtured a desire to make his work accessible to a broad range of people, and supportive of the communities that he is part of.

By making multiples, Tom is able to spread his own community around, while leaving pieces of Miami in the communities he travels to.

For over two decades, Tom has had 17 solo exhibitions and site-specific works. He also has work in over twenty public collections from the Perez Art Museum in Miami to the Iraq National Library in Baghdad.

Tom incorporated Extra Virgin Press, LLC in early 2016, after receiving a Knight Arts Challenge Grant from the John S. and James L. Knight Foundation in November 2015. Extra Virgin Press also received a Wavemaker/ Long Haul Grant from Cannonball Miami in 2016. His award winning books are included in two surveys of book arts. His books and prints are in public collections including PAMM, Walker Art Center, UC-San Diego, Jaffe Center for Book Arts, Wells College, and the Bienes Museum of the Modern Book.

Virgin’s most recent collaboration was creating letterpress posters with the Brooklyn-based artist Dread Scott.

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About the Theme This year’s theme was one of three ideas invented by the literary magazine’s student editing staff. The team went to the general student body to have them vote on their favorite, and this was the winner: “In the Eye of the Storm”, inspired by a song by Ryan Stevenson under the same name: “In the eye of the storm, You remain in control In the middle of the war, You guard my soul You alone are the anchor, when my sails are torn Your love surrounds me, In the eye of the storm.”

Students were tasked with coming up with unique works of art, photography, prose, and poetry. The theme was left open to interpretation; however, prompts were provided to get the imagination going- prompts such as, “elaborate on a time when you endured a difficult situation. Describe the process. What hardships did you face? What did it take to persevere? What did you learn? How did you defeat the obstacle? Did you overcome this obstacle successfully, or is the worst yet to come?”, and “Weather is arguably one of the most beautiful phenomena God has created, but also one of the most dangerous. Capture this seemingly oxymoronic combination of qualities in the medium of your choice”. The best two entries from each of the four media were chosen by our panel of judges, and winners received a prize of $50 for first place and $25 for second. Although faculty and alumni were not able to participate in this competition, they were encouraged to submit work to be published in the magazine as well. We are proud to present the results.

The Desolate Brute Nina Cuesta ‘21 Second Place Winner: Art Ink, acrylic, paint marker This piece was inspired by Deuteronomy 31:6.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”

This Year’s Winners From left to right: Ana Vega ‘21 (editor), Mrs. April Sharpe-Shirk, Gianna Birkeland ‘21 (editor), Austin Jones ‘22 (editor), Alexa Torres ‘23, Ailani Pittack ‘23, Nina Cuesta ‘21, Valentina Stromeyer ‘24, Reese de Moya ‘24, Charis Davis ‘22, Mrs. Angela Castano, Mr. Alex Gonzalez.

Not pictured: Isabella Artiles ‘22, Kayla Perry ‘22.

PROSE 1

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Reese de Moya ‘24 “In the Eye of the Storm” pg. 10

Isabella Artiles ‘22 “In the Eye of the Storm” pg. 13

POETRY 1 Kayla Perry ‘22 “Lost at Sea” pg. 12

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Charis Davis ‘22 “Life as I See It” pg. 16

ART1

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Valentina Stromeyer ‘24 “Structured Upheaval” pg. 17

Nina Cuesta ‘21 “The Desolate Brute” pg. 5

PHOTO 1

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Ailani Pittack ‘23 “Eye” pg. 19

Alexa Torres ‘23 “Rock Bottom” pg. 14

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STUDENTS

Reese de Moya “In the Eye of the Storm” First Place Winner: Prose

The crumbling, old wood of the cabin door stares back at her as rainwater comes tumbling down from the sky in fat droplets. She stands there for seconds, minutes, hours, absent from the world around her, her eyesight focused on nothing but the door in front of her, waiting stubbornly for it to open, because it will, it will, it will. She starts to shiver from the icy air, but still, she waits for the door to open.

A high-pitched howl crackles through the air like a siren, ringing and bounding off the trees, startling her out of her blissful ignorance. Only now does the sting of the night air seep into her skin, chilling her to the bone, and the shivers escalate. She wraps the thin shawl she has tightly around her, though it helps little since it, along with everything else on her body, is soaked through with water. Another howl pierces her ears, and she cannot help the curiosity coursing through her veins as she turns and takes a step towards the dark wood, squinting her eyes.

Steadily, she progresses forward, her steps careful at first before growing rushed and sloppy. She passes the tree-line and walks deep into the thicket, chasing after the repeating howls like a lost child searching after its mother. Her mind goes blank, focusing only on this sound, searching for something, anything. Maybe it’s her way of subconsciously trying to forget what was behind that stupid, stupid door, and she tries to think past it, but she cannot, so she just searches.

And searches.

And searches.

Rain still pours down, the canopy of the trees offering some shelter against the raging winds. Water patters on the leaves of a nearby bush, and she pauses, if only for a moment, to watch a singular droplet, slowly, so slowly, run down the middle of the greenery, before stopping on the tip of the leaf. Time seems to watch, just as mesmerized as she, and the droplet drips to the ground.

She continues forward after the howl.

The forest swallows her whole as she chases this sound, her body convulsing with sobs that finally break free of her chest. She stops mid-run and collapses to her knees, crying because she is lost, and she is forgotten, and she is nothing.

The storm rages on, wind whistling, rain almost becoming hail, pounding on the ground like footsteps following her. She feels none of it though, too worn out and empty to notice. Thunder booms and lightning strikes a nearby tree, but still, she is oblivious. That is, until the howls persist, this time impossibly closer, and she raises her tearstained face up at the sky. A sliver of moonlight peaks out from behind the storm clouds that fill the night sky, shining down on her face and illuminating her glassy eyes. The world seems to be mocking her, showing her something so beautiful, something that lights up the earth when her own little world is

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crumbling to pieces. Perhaps it’s trying to send the message that her troubles, when looking at everything from a bigger perspective, are insignificant.

Her head whips sharply to the side when the sound of rustling in the hedge breaks through the rain. A blur of dark grey moves in the bushes and she raises herself to her knees, then to her feet, clenching her hands shut to calm their trembling. She takes a shaky step forward, observing the sight before her, looking for another glimpse of what she assumes is what created the curious howl.

The trunks of the trees reach up to the sky, the bark peeling and branches poking out at all angles, bearing dark green leaves that fall with the pouring rain. Her eyes search the fields of ankle-deep plants, bright flowers of reds, pinks, yellows, and blues, though it is hard to see through her clouded vision. She stares blindly into the bushes and is about to progress forward when she hears a lowpitched growl over the storm.

A massive creature emerges from its hiding place, grey fur soaked through, making it look thick and heavy. Its eyes glowed green like the pine trees that surrounded her, their irises tinted with a ring of yellow. It stared her down, top gum lifted to show off its perfectly white and sharp teeth as another snarl tore through its mouth.

She slowly backs away from the hungry wolf, scared for the first time and completely aware of the danger she has just gotten herself into. But, at the same time, she cannot help but feeling the same sense of interest as before and has the strangest urge to go up to the beast.

In her mind, there is a chanting mantra of masochists, trying to convince her that a bit of reckless behavior is healthy, while her small sense of self-preservation screams at her the opposite.

The storm finally slows, and the rain halts its pouring, if only for a few minutes, and the silence that follows is deafening. As if summoned by the quiet, a whole pack of wolves, all slightly smaller than the original one who seems to be the alpha, appear, all standing in a circle around her. The voices telling her to be rash calm before fully disappearing, as if even they were frightened by this circle of wolves, who seem to be eyeing her for their next meal.

Her heart beats faster and faster in her chest, and all she can hear is the thump thump thump in her ears as everything else fades away. Everything except for the alpha wolf, who opens its mouth in a vicious smile.

It raises its neck and howls into the night sky, and the pack follows. It starts to rain again as the wolves descend upon her and the eye of the storm passes.

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Lost at Sea Kayla Perry ‘22 First Place Winner: Poetry As the sun began to rise just above the distant horizon, I lay still, drifting along the vast ocean Floating in abyss, yearning for the day I will reach land again.

Night falls, as the moonlight illuminates the tranquil waves Gleaming stars shine bright throughout the sky Time goes on, and the sun rises again A vicious cycle it is, being trapped in the oceans circumference Day after day, watching the sun rise and sun set, Everything seems the same Today is different The wind has a brisk tendency, rocking the boat back and forth A distinct scent fills the air Rain, the gentle tapping sound begins to strengthen as I approach the downpour The joyful sky quickly turns to a fury Clouds darken as blinding bolts of lightning strike the ocean’s surface Terror has struck Vigorous gusts of wind rip my innocent boat to shreds The howling sea of chaos attacks what little strength I have left The ongoing storm ceases to subside I close my eyes and cry out to God, When will I be out of this terror, this horror you have put me through I want to give up, I can’t keep on going As I open my eyes a dim beam of light shines through the fog of darkness surrounding me The waves calm down to a serene pattern Peace at last as the ocean lulls me to sleep As the harsh sun awakens me from my slumber I hear the sound of distant chatter Looking up ahead, I saw the unimaginable I saw a lush green island, filled with crowded people My journey on the water has come to an end I thought to myself would I ever do it again The journey, the storm, the adventure all becomes a part of you, A part of your life But what if you could turn the storm away?

What if you could simply decline its invitation?

What if all the struggle and all the hurt could go away?

Or if given the option, would you do it all again to be the person you are today?

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Isabella Artiles In the Eye of the Storm Second Place Winner: Prose

The tears welled up in my eyes as I stood with my team across the field from the new 2019 Class 4A Softball State Champions. Quietly, we received our Runner Up medals while muffled cries and sniffling were the only sounds on our side of the field. It seemed as if the whole field went silent, and all I could hear was my inner thoughts, reminding me that we had just lost the State Championship. Staring straight ahead, my heart was breaking while photographers walked onto the field and snapped pictures of our despair to share with everyone.

As I started to pack up my gear, I could not get over the fact we had gotten so far, and only to fall short the very last game of the season. We worked so hard for this moment as a team since January, and it was May. We had lost. I could not wrap my mind around what just happened.

I walked alone to my family’s car. I kept envisioning what we could have done as a team to change the outcome of the game, and my thoughts devoured me the whole, quiet car ride home. I never felt this defeated in my entire life.

The next morning, the local newspaper splashed our tears across the sports page for all to share in our defeat and utter disappointment. The loss stung for almost a week, and I could not seem to get over it.

But we each had a choice. We could either continue to stew in the pain, or we could take the hurt and use it to fuel a comeback!

I decided I wanted the latter, so I chose to look back on our season and focus on how much fun we had, and how much

closer we became throughout the spring. I remembered our long, hot practices after school and the sweat and tears that got us to where we were. Sure, we didn’t win. But we had worked unbelievably hard to make it to the Final Four. And then played our hearts out during the Semi-Final game to make it to the Championship. I also thought about our hilarious team dinners, and our trips out of town as a team.

Although I chose to focus on the good, it still hurt to remember I had been part of a team that won the State title two years consecutively in 2017 and 2018. I wanted it so bad in 2019 that I could taste it. But that 3-Peat simply eluded us this year. We would have to take the time to work harder, get better and get focused for the next season.

We started our new season in early 2020, with a handful of talented seniors to help get us the Final Four again. However, we faced a harsh reality and disappointment. Our season would be cut brutally short because of COVID. We played our very last game of the season on March 11, 2020. Our five seniors would have to walk away empty handed, missing out on even a chance to compete for the cherished championship. It was such a sad time again. We cried as a team and mourned what could have been. Although we had a chance to celebrate with each other in May, and say goodbye to our senior teammates, it felt like another defeat. Again, I had a decision. I could focus on what could have been, or I could look forward to what could be. I could work harder, stay focused

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Rock Bottom Alexa Torres ‘23 Second Place Winner: Photography

“Sometimes it feels like you’ve reached the lowest point in your entire life. You feel surrounded by nothing but darkness, and a way out seems to be impossible. This photo captures that feeling of being trapped and trying to cling to the smallest amount of hope.”

and welcome my new teammates in the Fall of 2020.

So here we are at the end of the year, and I remain excited and hopeful that we will compete in the Spring of 2021. I have continued to put in the work and encourage my teammates. This season will be an important one. It will be a defining moment of who we are as a team, and how we handle adversity and change. I believe in who we are, I believe in our talent, I believe in our coaches, and I believe we will come out of this situation stronger and ready to compete.

Life as I See it Charis Davis ‘22 Second Place Winner: Poetry As the sun began to rise just above the distant horizon, By a hurricane I become part of this world, And once I am born the winds subside.

Snow falls fresh and new Innocent, untainted like me.

When there’s snow, I play, But eventually it melts.

Beating and battering The rain strikes hard Cruel drops hinder me And I am lost I’m unseen, unheard And the path is now uncertain It’s not for long, I say The rain doesn’t last forever.

The sun reveals herself Brilliant and blazing Her energy a gift to me That fills me through and through Euphoric are my days in the sun But of course, she has to leave too.

The clouds take over My days are colorless, passionless I can bear it for a little longer The monotonous routine But my spirit from past days Is forever gone and will never return.

My final days are like the sky after a storm A rainbow, the threshold to harmony Is a creation of comfort to me Because soon I will dwell in paradise.

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Structured Upheaval Valentina Stromeyer ‘24 First Place Winner: Art wax resist “This piece features a surrounding chaos with swirls of serenity, because even a storm there is calm.”

The Totality of Decimation Morgan “Snowy” Deville ‘22

A storm raged among the children of the heavens.

The forest glittered with the broken promises of the goddess that created it.

Her tears fell smoothly from the mottled sky, shimmering in the darkness with a weak, shuddering silver glow. I sat beneath the trees, dark behemoths stretching towards the firmament in a desperate attempt to reach their weeping mother.

Her many eyes twinkled down at them, constant and distant as they hung limply in the murky darkness that made up the goddess’ body, an image of Argus in her visage. I remained unnoticed, insignificant, and irrelevant as an ant to an eagle.

Creatures skittered around me, somehow even less meaningful in the dynamic of creation as myself, hidden in the mist that engulfed the floor of this great wood. Titters crackled in the air like the crunch of autumn leaves, of the soothing sound of a campfire in the dead of winter, filling the forest with sounds of all that had come to accept the children of the goddess as their home.

The children ignored the leeches that rustled around their feet. They fought each other, fought themselves, constantly drawing life up, up from the dirt and forcing themselves to grow higher and higher, each attempt reminiscent of the humans building the tower of babel to reach a God that wouldn’t listen. The goddess smiled at them, cold and malicious, sharpened like the edge of an obsidian blade. She relished in their misery, watching with unforgiving eyes and a merciless snarl.

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My eyes flickered down to the marbled stone that had become my legs, overgrown with fungus and decay. I smiled slightly at the gruesome sight, watching with little more than nonchalant interest as a furred creature began to gnaw veraciously at my thigh. I made no move to stop it, unconcerned with such a trivial thing.

My head moved slowly, the creeping moss growing up my calcified form making movement nigh impossible past a certain point. Cold impermeable dredges pelted down on the earth, roiling above the forest like a torrential sea.

Clawed hands reached down from the speckled sky, flickering and writhing in a shock of bright energy. The blow tore a hole in the body of one of the goddess’ children, and with a booming scream, the forest was set brilliantly ablaze. The creatures scattered, the thundering bellows of the sky deafening as the roar of the forest grew higher and higher in pitch. I stared upwards, entranced by the swirling mass of energy swallowing the rancid corpses of the oaken dead.

Voices rang around me, rising and falling in the cacophony of the chaos overtaking the foliage. I felt panic begin to rise in my chest, but I remained unmoving in the face of imminent destruction. I had waited in this wood far too long to let such cosmic anger scare me away. Destruction reigned over the offspring of the goddess, and I watched passively as the inferno passed over my leaden form. Fragmentation threatened to destroy the last clinging shred of my sanity as a jovial laugh bub-

Ailani Pittack “Eye” First Place Winner: Photography

-bled up deep inside of me, pouring out of my mouth in a gush of hot blood.

Fire met flood as the incessant squall from the sky tussled with the unquenchable brimstone in brutal litigation on the forest floor. My body blazed and withered in tandem as I continued my contemptuous cackling.

Crack spread through the frozen granite of my limbs, my stomach, my chest, as I shuddered and choked on mirthless mania. Hysterics shuddered from my lips in an endless stream, corpuscle fluid dripping down my face. Clotted coagulation sewed my mouth shut, and my laughter diminished to a groaning gurgle.

Celestial lashes of electricity fell from the clouds like the flash of a flog, lighting up the sky for moments at a time with the brilliant light of the goddess who inflicted them.

Crackling electricity washed over the forest, lambent, dazzling in its ceaseless intensity.

The only relief to the agony the children felt was the liniment rain that chilled their scalded soul. The tremendous queen of shadow, the harbinger of death and solitude laughed at the intractable anguish of her youths.

The Locker Blake Davidson ‘21 Photography “Simplistic as this ‘locked’ locker may seem, it represents the caged and overwhelmed feeling COVID has brought upon us. From being locked up in isolation to doing online school, we all feel the impacts of COVID differently.

We are all battling our own eye of the storm due to COVID. This locker, to me, symbolizes a painful reminder of all the deaths lost to COVID and how we felt caged because we could do nothing to assist them.”

Fleeing Nicaragua Elizabeth Pierson ‘21

Every hair was pulled back to create the perfect high bun. It was embellished with fresh flowers. My mom chose red ones and painted my lips to match. I was dressed in my huilpil – my Nicaraguan national dress. This was our tradition every September 15 before I stepped on stage to dance in honor of Nicaragua’s Independence Day. As my bare feet shuffled on the wood floor and my hands gently held the tips of my skirt, swaying it back and forth, my fear turned to a feeling of pride of being “Nica.” This strong sense of identity, which I developed growing up in Nicaragua, is what made it so hard for me to leave the only place I had ever called home at the age of fourteen. It is also what, since I had to flee the violence and protests in 2018, has given me a sense of calm in my new home in Miami.

Three months into the academic year, I stood in front of the student body at my new school in Miami. I flashed the first slide of my presentation on my home country, an image of two nuns and a priest kneeling in front of a line of armed paramilitaries. The church in the background was riddled with bullet holes. The picture barely began to illustrate the fear and oppression we Nicaraguans have lived with every day since April 2018. Over 300 people lost their lives, thousands had been kidnapped and tortured by the oppressive government. I had to finish my freshman year on-line because my school was in the middle of a literal war zone. There were blockades built by college students from the cement blocks from the road as a manner of self-protection against the paramilitaries that were attacking them for

no reason. You could not pass by without running the risk of being shot. My school was on the other side of the round-about.

The flag that I remember always flying high was completely destroyed and filled with ashes and holes.

Several months after arriving to safety in Miami, I traveled to Washington DC to attend the Organization of American States presentation of the Report on Human Rights Violations in Nicaragua. I listened to experts detail the violence they uncovered and was vividly reminded of the oppression that Nicaraguans continued to live with every day. This coincided with a conversation with a friend in Nicaragua about how hard it was for the Nicaraguan Commission to help Children with Cancer (CONANCA), an organization where I had volunteered and raised money since middle school. I had an idea! In the months that followed I presented and secured approvals to start a CONANCA Club at my school. Soon, more than one hundred students registered as members and we set up a booth at the family festival, where we raised more than a thousand dollars. Even though I was 1,1021 miles away, I found a way to find peace in helping my country and support a cause important to me.

Although I know I am blessed to be safe in Miami and have tried to make a difference. I am still affected every day by the humanitarian crisis in Nicaragua. My dad was not able to come with my mom and I because of his job. I worry about him every day and know that my stay in Miami is just the eye of the storm.

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Daniela Canales In the Eye of the Storm As I arise ready to start a fresh new day I am suddenly faced with a storm coming straight my way She brings fright, tears, and doubt When all I want to do is pass through and get out She leaves me questioning my faith and who I am As if all I’ve been through has been a waste, or one big scam She throws obstacles right in my direction Yet gives me no answers, when I question Why is it that she leaves me with no hope Of what a better brighter future may hold Instead she feeds on all my little fears And breaks me in the timeframe of just one year She takes all the ones I’ve loved But when she does I feel no pain because I’m numb She takes and takes and takes and takes She is sure to inflict enough pressure, that I might just break She leaves me stranded as I plead for a sign But instead she compares me to others and says I’ll be fine She makes me feel as if I’m drowning strapped to a wieght As I push and gasp for some air before it is too late I try to hold on and keep my head held high But I admit it is hard to keep up with such a lie When will this heavy, draining storm finishing passing It almost feels as if the pain she brings is everlasting I can only hope for a future with more joy and laughter Where I can be happy and recover from this storm faster See, through all the challenges and difficulties she threw my way This storm has shaped me and made me be the person I am today I’ve learned and grown so much from just one big storm And now I’ll never let another do me the same harm

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Katrina Bobson

I almost lost my brother and father on a windy day while on vacation in Grand Cayman. My parents surprised us with this weekend trip shortly before we were to embark from Miami. They told us to pack light but were elusive about where we were going or why. We were extremely flummoxed.

When we arrived at the airport, we still did not know where we were going.

My father printed out our tickets. Only then did I see “Grand Cayman” on the boarding pass. I’d heard of it before but did not know much about where it was or why we would go there. My parents finally explained we were going on a snorkel vacation in the diving capital of the world.

The water was an idyllic turquoise with waves crashing over a protected reef.

The sand was fluffy white, and the coconut palms drifted in the wind. At this point the sky was a beautiful blue with graceful white clouds- this would soon change. My mom and I decided to hang out in a hammock while my brother and father swam across the bay to the exposed reef and explore the colorful deep waters. For the moment, life was good.

As they started to snorkel a hazardous strong current caught them off guard, caused by waves crashing over the reef and filling the bay. Swimming was clearly difficult because each time they stopped to rest they were propelled back to the beach.

They were making slow progress on the half mile’s swim to the exposed reef and were just about worn out when they finally made it.

I watched from the distance as

they took off their fins to walk on the exposed boulders. They crossed the reef and entered into the breaking waves. I was alarmed that it was too dangerous to cross the surf zone into the deep water, but was relieved when they turned around to swim inside the protected reef to the cut.

I watched them swimming along the calm water when they suddenly stopped- they must have noticed a change in underwater terrain. My father popped his head out and clearly noticed there was no more reef beside them. They were in the middle of the deeper waters of the cut and the crashing waves became a giant pump, filling the long bay with nowhere to escape.

That’s when disaster struck.

My father began to struggle from a severe leg cramp and could no longer swim. He was a cork in a massive rip tide.

My brother swam over to check on him and I could see him gesture that they needed to get away.

To make matters worse, a storm rolled in and the wind and waves increased, curling over the dangerous rip current. In an instant they both were propelled out to sea into deep open water.

My brother would later tell me that as they struggled, he asked my dad “Are we going to die?”. My dad responded in his usual calm demeanor: “We are going to be just fine. I have a plan.”

They swam across the current to get away, but it was almost a mile wide.

The wind was angled to the current. The plan was to let the wind and waves carry them further from the beach and risk the current’s pull to take them beyond it. But

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the storm had gotten darker. The white caps were blowing salt spray into their faces and the water was dark and foreboding.

They started to backstroke towards the bay. As they once more approached the exposed reef the waves curled up over their heads, crashing down and separating them. Watching helplessly from shore, I could tell breathing became almost impossible for them. When my father finally got to the rocks, he once more took off his fins to climb up the boulders. As soon as he got the fin off another massive wave crashed down and ripped it effortlessly from his hand. I could see him realize he was in serious trouble because swimming back exhausted and without fins would be impossible. The next wave ripped the mask from his face and rolled him across the bottom of the exposed reef so hard that it ripped his stainless-steel dive watch off his arm without him even realizing. Nevertheless, he regained control and climbed up on the reef where he joined my brother.

I could see them thanking God they were both alive.

The adventure was not over.

They rested for a few minutes trying to catch their breath when a strange miracle happened. Ten feet from them, to their complete disbelief, they found both fins sandwiched together, popped straight up out of the surf. Their prayers had been answered because there was no way my father could swim across the bay barefoot after having endured strong currents.

From shore, my mother and I watched them swim across the bay toward shore about a half a mile north of us, bypassing the current. Adding to the struggle, without his prescription mask my father was blind, and they were swimming backward to conserve energy. They inadvertently got caught back once again in the rip current.

Again they had to quickly swim across the current, and by the time they got out

of it they had been transported back out just inside the cut which left them to swim across the half mile bay once again to shore.

They then finally climbed ashore worn out and bedraggled.

My father later went to the resort dive shop to see if he could get a new mask. He told the clerk the wild adventure they had just been on and she gasped and said that no one caught in that rip current had ever come back, and that they lost about seven people a year to that current.

New mask in-hand, my dad walked across the beach and I asked: “Hey! Can we go for a swim and explore the bay?”

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Facing the Storm Natalia Milo ‘22 The day arrived ever so fast Almost as if it were the year before Our team could finally take a breath at last, Preparing for the downpour.

The lights were just as bright As we walked in to subdue With little to no fright, We believed we were ready for the typhoon.

The game of the season was about to begin As they handed our team the game ball Every player with a very big grin, Then there was almost a sudden squall.

Both teams showed off how well they could perform, Realizing that they were both caught in the storm.

Each player giving it all they got Even when the calls were not all the fairest Each team really, really fought, While being stuck in the tempest.

The game was nearing the end Preparing for the result unknown Our team not being able to comprehend, The other team had escaped the cyclone.

Not liking the end result Leaving our team in lots of pain Coming back next year is a must, Competing again against the hurricane.

Next year a new team will be born, And hopefully we will be able to face the eye of the storm.

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Anderson Bryan C’est stressant dans la vie, De même, il y a le chaos dans l’ouragan.

J’essaye vraiment survie Alors, j’ai a l’océan.

Dans me voilier, Contrairement au orage, Il se sent familiar.

La monde vous veut être dans outrager.

C’est relaxant sur les flots: L’expanse remplie avec aventure.

Une porte peut-etre clos, Mais, sur l’océan, beaucoup des portes sont ouverture Dans l’œil du orage est l’océan quand on peux recentrage.

Translation: It is stressful in life, In the same way, there is chaos in a hurricane.

I am really trying to survive So, I go to the ocean.

In my sailboat, Unlike a storm, It feels familiar.

The world wants you to be outraged.

It is relaxing on the waves: The expanse filled with adventure.

A door may be closed, But, on the ocean, many doors are open.

In the eye of the storm is the ocean where one can recharge.

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A Lesson Never Forgotten Marcelo Nunez ‘21

The feeling of emptiness and sorrow ran through my body like the winds of a hurricane, I had never felt this way before. “It’s not true, it can’t be, I don’t believe it!” is what I thought to myself as I was unable to move a muscle, frozen like a statue. He is gone, I was just with him the day before in class, watching him present his project. His smile lit up the room as usual, never failing to make me smile. I remembered the inside joke we had since our 6th grade Spanish class. I sobbed on my bed, wondering, “Why him?” God had chosen the wrong person; it was not his time. Anger filled my veins. I was a volcano ready to erupt. My pillow became a punching bag, having never felt this level of anger before in my life.

Silence... school was an abandoned ghost town the next day. Pale faces and lifeless bodies roamed around the hallways. I had never heard such silence amongst so many people before. I could still picture a smile on his face. I thought to myself, “I had never seen him down or upset for the five years I’d known him.” I was infuriated because I knew I didn’t do as much as I could have for him. Anytime he saw someone having a bad day, he would be the first one to ask that person, “What’s wrong?” or “Can I help you?”

He always encouraged me saying, “Everything is going to be fine” and that he would always be there for me. Unfortunately, I failed to realize that since he was always in a great mood, I never asked him how he was doing or feeling. That thought of me not doing enough to help him pains me until this day.

It was a dreary, cloudy day as voices echoed through the microphone, five hundred students listening in grief. His parents and brothers were there with such heartbroken faces, they had lost such a key part of their lives. His mother’s voice cracked as she struggled to get her words out, she tried to maintain her composure.

The oldest brother, with a somewhat more uplifting approach, told the crowd how his brother wouldn’t have wanted to see us like this, and he’d rather have us celebrate the life he lived with the memories we shared with him. I felt the clouds disperse, while the sun became visible for the first time that day. I felt a gust of wind lift my head and a huge gasp spread throughout the crowd, hearing whispers, “Did you feel that?” “That was him, that was him, he’s still with us!” The mood throughout the atrium changed in a matter of seconds.

Inspired by the words spoken by his older brother, I decided to devote myself to using the power of empathy and kindness. I vowed to not let a day go by without asking someone how their day was going, and really listen to their answer. I can sense when a friend is feeling down. My friends always say that they feel better after I’ve reached out to themwhether it’s listening to a friend who can’t get along with her stepfather or being there to help a friend cope with her mom’s passing.

I realize those small questions can change a person’s life.

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Nico Hidalgo

“Nico! Nico! Nico!”

It seems like just yesterday that I heard those words bursting through my neighbor’s walls as I stepped inside their home. My neighbor, and very special friend, Dean Carr, was known as “the Mayor” of our street at just fouryears old. He was an endearing little boy who cruised the neighborhood in his little electric truck, and I was the “big kid” across the street with a “big car” (my admittedly earsplitting 2000 Chevy). At sixteen, I am not ashamed to admit that it was one of my favorite past-times to visit Dean often. Dean, like me at his age, only spoke Spanish, so we knew the same folkloric children’s rhymes and sang those together.

We played and talked about cars. Dean mused about the day when he would drive my car when he was a “big kid.”

Sadly, that day would never come. In October, 2018, my buddy and our street’s “Mayor,” was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. While the Carr family showed awe-inspiring faith, strength and unity, it was a painstaking, eleven months until Dean’s passing. During the precious time I had with Dean after his diagnosis, it became my mission to add as much joy and diversion to his world as I could while he battled. I kept my visits going. I would watch him drive up and down the driveway in his electric truck. We would play with his toys. And when the tumor started to impact his balance and weaken him physically, we would just sit together and watch cartoons.

Dean passed away in September 2019, but I am astonished by the impact he had and continues to have on me. The weeks after his passing were grueling; I was tormented every time I drove past his house, experiencing the

Madison Hendrikse We awoke yesterday to a clattering sound Unsure, we moved to the door and we found A cloud of wind running down the sidewalk We thought of our pets and our boats at the dock Sprinting, we took the fastest route there As we approached, something happened to our hair It began floating and electricity was near We yelled “go hide” and felt much fear Home and this hurricane were the topics on our minds We knew it’d be brutal so we shut the blinds

Just Reach Krista Hannon ‘23 Graphite drawing “This piece illustrates what we go through as we struggle through adversity in life, but God is always right there with us. He is our peace in the midst of the storms we encounter.”

conflicting emotions of a happy memory and the somber reality of the present almost interchangeably. I had mourned the loss of loved ones before, my grandfather, for example, but never a loss so premature.

Dean’s passing burned a bitter reality in my soul—life is not always fair.

This despair, however, was then overridden with a deep and personal need to honor him. Dean, an angel, was pushing me to do more. I joined his family to fundraise in Dean’s name and to live by what is now known as “The Dean Code.”

We joined forces with a neighbor that manufactures baseball caps and customized a design to honor Dean. We sold the caps to raise funds for pediatric brain cancer research. Additionally, I went a step further and organized a team in Dean’s memory at a local fundraiser for cancer.

Dean’s passing sparked a flame of passion to do good and to do more in the face of something so terrible. It was, I must admit, an awakening.

And finally, I remember turning over the funds I had raised to Dean’s par-

ents. I wish it could have been more and I knew it would not bring back Dean, but I was humbled by the opportunity to stand before that family a better man because of their late son’s everlasting impact on me.

In fact, I realized that I mourned Dean by living what is now known as “The Dean Code”—that is, I acted with a genuine and kind heart.

While Dean’s passing is perhaps the greatest tragedy I have ever witnessed, I can say that it transformed me. I can now say that good may still come of something that is so utterly sad. I learned to honor others’ struggles selflessly. And, I learned that innocence and kindness are transformative and timeless. Dean, through his innocence and kindness, changed us forever. Indeed, as I write this, I have Dean’s little hand on my back, and I am confident that I will do more for this world because of Dean.

Clinging Nina Rico ‘22 Digitally manipulated photography “In the eye of the storm we cling to what is most important.”

Stella Hamann

In life, every person will experience their own hardships whether it be in their years of youth or elderly years. But, the fact is, that whenever one endures hardships, they are difficult to recover from, no matter the time of experiencing it.

I went through one of the worst hardships I have experienced two years ago. In January of 2018, I discovered that my cousin, Ariana, had been diagnosed with cancer. It was a heavy weight on my shoulders because I had never experienced a situation like that. My whole family had just broken down after she was diagnosed.

My father, especially, was hit the hardest. Ari was only seven years old and the thought of her dying at such a young age was never even something that anyone had thought of.

At such a young age, it never even occurs to anybody to be dying of cancer.

It was believed to be unreal, crazy how one’s life can change so incredibly quick.

Persevering was tough in this situation, for everybody in the family.

After she passed in May of 2018, it was hard to focus, hard to love, and hard to understand. But, we continued on. It was not easy nor will it ever get easier.

Throughout the duration of such a difficult time, I learned to always be grateful for what I have. Before she passed, I never really took the time to appreciate everybody in my life who I love and who love me greatly. As humans living through life, death is always going to make life difficult. It will be a struggle to move on, but everyone must do it. Instead of always

thinking about the sad side of the situation, I have learned to think about Ari in a happy way. Instead of thinking of how sad and difficult her death was, I think about what I can now do to make her happy and to praise her. I think of how awesome she must be feeling in Heaven, free of pain or stress.

I believe my family and I had a successful recovery. We now really emphasize gratitude in our daily lives. We have learned to be even more grateful that the rest of us are in health, and are forever grateful that her death has brought us closer. Ari showed us how to love and taught us what it really feels like to be grateful for each other. In conclusion, the death of a loved one is no where near easy. But, to persist and move on, we must stay strong and continue to be even more grateful for our loved ones. We never know what may happen, anything may come unexpected, like what happened to Ari. Life can pass you by in an instant, so it is always important to cherish every possible moment you have with your loved ones.

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After Audra Katrina Bobson ‘21 Watercolor painting “This piece depicts the clearing of the storm with rainbows and warm light shining through.”

Lili Diaz-Silveira “In the Eye of the Storm” Deaths in a copious amount Thrown inside against our will Positive tests that we must take into count The world seems as if its in a standstill Masks mandated all over Online school crushing our minds This pandemic is having its takeover There is no time to unwind Our conscience is consumed by worrying This pandemic has thrown our minds into war We must be hurrying This cannot go on much more Social isolation has placed us into a whirlpool of mental illness But there seems no way to inform We all just pray for stillness We are just simply in the eye of this sickening storm

Can Only Go Up...

Kiki Simmons ‘21 Mixed media “My piece is about hitting rock bottom but finding hope and comfort in knowing that things will get better. The situation (storm) will pass and the pieces left behind can be put back together to allow you to move on.”

Andrea Escobio

In the seventh grade, I met my best friend. Full of love, benevolence, and compassion, she brought out the best in me. I became more selfless and kinder towards others, flourishing from the positive influence she bestowed upon me. Seemingly always content, she was a steady rock for me to lean on and was always there to listen to my incessant rambling over the smallest things, whether it was regarding school, soccer, or pointless drama. She was always there for me- but I felt that I was useless in helping her. I found it unusual that while I was an open book pouring my soul out to her regarding the slightest inconveniences, she was consistently lighthearted and untroubled by the adversities presented to her, never complaining no matter how much was on her plate. I was conscious of the impact she had on me throughout our following years of friendship as evidenced through my enhanced character, but I was unaware of the impact I had on her. I did not realize the deep profundity that our friendship had on her until my junior year.

It was a Friday night like any other, beginning with tremendous amounts of fast food and ending with a late-night television marathon. That night, we decided to watch the show 13 Reasons Why, a series following the events leading a teenage girl to commit suicide. In the midst of watching the show, my friend broke down in tears. Baffled as to why she was so invested in the story, I asked her what was bothering her. She looked at me deeply, with tears flowing from her eyes.

The words that came out of her mouth

next both broke my heart and filled it with inspiration, changing my perspective on life from that moment forward.

In the United States, there is one suicide every thirteen minutes, approximating to 113 suicides per day. Each and every day I thank God that that number did not increase, as the 114th one would have represented my best friend. I held on to her hand, with tears flowing from each and every one of her words. “I had thought about killing myself. I did not feel like I had a purpose in life and that the world would be better off without me. You are one of the few reasons I decided that life was worth living.” Choking on tears, my eyes and heart were opened. Small acts of kindness which often go unrecognized, something as simple as a compliment or telling someone that you care about them, were enough to save my friend’s life.

From that day forward, I promised myself that I would go out of my way to be kind and that I would make a conscious effort to look for the signs one may be struggling to hide. This new lens I wore allowed me to see these signs in someone 1,087 miles away. This boy, although being a plane flight away, was one of the people I considered myself closest to. He was funny, exuberant, and always lifted my spirits. I began to realize that he was always there to listen to my concerns but seemed to belittle or minimize the importance of his- this was a pattern I knew far too well. After gently confronting him, I learned that he suffered from both addiction and depression. He told me that I was the only person that realized he was

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From Above Bianca Diaz-Silveira ‘24 Ink drawing “My cat climbs up to her scratching post when my dog barks and chases her. High places are a comfort space when Bella is around- protection from the storm.”

Social Storm Jalyn Cronkite ‘24 Acrylic on canvas

“This painting explores how social media pervades innocence and can destroy it.”

struggling and that I had been someone he felt he could rely on, despite the fact that we were so far away.

Every day, one has a choice on how to live. I choose to be trustworthy, non-judgmental, empathetic, and someone that will love others- especially at their worst. I live these qualities out not only for myself, but for those around me. I understand that I could not completely heal my two friends, but I will continue to be there for them, and anyone else, because no one should have to heal alone.

Nina Cuesta

I hesitantly paced barefoot across the cold tile floors of my living room to the garage where my mother was slowly making a dent in the seemingly never empty dirty clothes basket. I took a deep breath, gathered my thoughts, and timidly squeaked open the door. I gazed directly into my mother’s confused eyes and asked the question that had frenzied my mind since about the age of six…

“Mami, is it normal to see two of everything?”

Her face became pale and immediately my father’s concerned voice was echoing from her cell phone.

After endless visits to the ophthalmologist, school evaluations, and an excruciating eye surgery, it was determined that I was born with a permanent vision disability called diplopia, more commonly referred to as double vision. I was born with this condition and I never truly questioned its abnormality, for if I had never been able to see the way everyone else did, how would I have assumed there was anything wrong with me?

There was a point in school where I saw myself drifting away from the academic accomplishments of my classmates, of which I suppose was caused by my condition making reading and writing a truly arduous mission. Moreover, I found it puzzling how in my brain I understood that I only had two hands, yet when I gazed down, I saw four hands and a sum of twenty fingers; something had to be wrong with me. While I was able to conclude that I must be defective, even today, I continuously ask myself what made me finally recognize that I was not ordinary.

Such a question led to a more profound reflection of my self-esteem. As a child, I would play a constant guessing game between which image I viewed was real and which was a mere deception of my impediment. Similarly, as I grew older, I found myself in an incessant clash between the person I was around others and the person I was in solitude.

I was never truly comfortable with who I was, and acceptance was something I craved more than anything in the world.

Attempting to mask my genuine self, I created a phony image of myself to please the world and numb myself from the truth.

Regardless of my caring friends and family, I used to always feel like an outcast to those around me.

I saw myself as a constant contradiction to society’s “normal.” However, when I began my volunteer work with children with disabilities and shared in their delight for living each day, I began to realize how I never questioned my perception of the world until others began to impose their own truth into my life.

So many years were wasted by comparing myself to others and expecting that adjusting my qualities would bring approval, contentment, and reconciliation into my draining mindset. Although seeing two of everything is not deemed conventional by the rest of the world, it is my bizarre reality that I now embrace. All images I perceive, both metaphorically and literally, are unique aspects of myself that expand my originality. Ultimately, no, seeing two of everything is not normal, but I would certainly not want it any other way.

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AJ Gonzalez Photography

Convergence Christopher Bobson ‘23 Photography “My picture is called convergence because it shows the sun and the moon in the same frame with the ocean in between. This demonstrates the calm after a storm has passed.”

Logan Lopez Photography

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Ana Carolina Ortiz Digitally manipulated photography

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Kyle Wright Digitally manipulated photography

02

ALUMNI

The Walk Sara V. Fernandez Class of 2019 Alumna

Walking back from the Johnson Athletic Center, the wind chills us. Our staggered steps leave an off-tempo gap between us. Sidewalks do not typically span the width of six feet, so we must alternate who leads and who follows. We speak fluidly, but our steps remain unrefined, sporadic, and clunky. We strain to see each other, but our legs pull us onward. My winter coat anchors me towards the ground.

My toes feel glued to my boots, but then again, they do not feel much of anything at the moment. My ungloved hands sit sheltered in my pockets, only slightly burning from the February cold. More wind chills us. We enter the courtyards that separate the dining buildings from the academic.

The path is flanked by twelve-inch snowbanks, untouched and untainted by the world. Sunlight radiates off the powder, striking our eyes with the illuminated scene. The trees are painted, and benches are overcome by the frozen glow. The surreal whiteness beckons, calling us to explore it and diverge from our path.

My gait steadies. I take in my surroundings as I consider my strides. The rhythmic crinkle of leather on cotton dissipates as I slow to a stop. I wait a moment, then peer over this image of serenity. It seems so empty, but its fullness intrigues me. Another moment passes. It looks as if this has always been this way, like nothing could ever intervene and change it. The pervading quiet stirs me. I wonder, is this serene? Is this calm silencing the noise?

This undisturbed blanket hides the earth below it, masking the grimy chaos that lies beneath. The wilted flowers, the blackened colors, and everything else is shielded from view. I turn away from the guise and outstretch my arms to separate me from this pristine landscape. Do I really want to reveal what is hiding?

I check my steadiness for a second, then I let my weight rock me backward.

The off-balance teeter lifts me from the ground. For a moment, there is no snow.

Then, it envelops me. I sink deep into the bank, compressing everything below me.

The wind cannot touch me here. I move my limbs against the powdery surface, smoothing it out and imprinting my form.

I breathe deeply, slowing my motion. My eyes close as I stop to think. Is this really what peace looks like?

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Sara V. Fernandez

Sara was the valedictorian of the class of 2019 and currently is studying Materials Science and Engineering at MIT with minors in Chinese and Entrepeneurship.

During her time at Westminster, she was president of Mu Alpha Theta, the captain of the tennis team, and a graduate of the inaugural Project Lead the Way engineering program. She also loved to write for the literary magazine, and won first place for prose during her junior year. She sees writing as “a useful tool to help communicate thoughts and ideas to others while also conveying emotion. It is useful for the writer as they are able to reflect on what they have experienced and likewise helps the reader absorb what the writer has to say”. She says her submission, “The Walk” describes “a seemingly pure and peaceful place”, while also ackowledging that there is a darkness lying beneath the surface. “The eye of the storm presents itself as an escape from a difficult and destructive reality, but it merely hides the harshness that surrounds it from all sides.”

Sara was recently an undergraduate researcher at the MIT Media Lab and led a scientific paper on comfortable devices that was accepted for publication and will be released soon. She hopes that she can combine her passion for technology and humanity by helping in the medical field.

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Elisabeth Campbell

Elisabeth Campbell is currently a second-year student at the University of Central Florida and proud WCS alumna. In 2018, Elisabeth began the WCS Literary Magazine as its editor-in-chief and oversaw the magazine’s first four issues. As a student at Westminster, Elisabeth served as president of the National English Honor Society for one year and the copy editor of Westminster’s yearbook, the Beacon, for two years. As a college student, Elisabeth studies Creative Writing as part of UCF’s English program and has recently been offered the opportunity to co-author a book on Hispanic cultures in the United States. For Elisabeth, writing is as much a part of her as it is a hope for a future career. Her passion for telling stories inspired her to write the following short piece. “Metaphors” is a fantasy story designed to play on the ancient Greek understanding of the obscene.

The story occurs in the eye of a storm, the storm itself playing a large part in the plot’s denouement. ​​ ​​

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Metaphors Elisabeth Campbell Class of 2019 Alumna

The pirate is, of course, a metaphor.

(Real pirates do not have cabins composed entirely of chess boards).

The girl sitting across from him is dead, but that doesn’t seem to bother her much. She has drunk nearly half the bottle of his gin and is eyeing his rook with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for the living.

“It’s not the rook,” remarks the pirate.

“Oh, shut up.”

He laughs, and the ruby embedded in his eyebrow sparkles in the candlelight. The dead girl would perhaps think him handsome if their relationship were anything but what it was. But she has been in this room too many times, at this chessboard across from him much too often. With a hesitant hand, she moves her knight three spaces diagonally. He responds with a quick motion from his queen.

“There’s another way we can do this, you know,” he says.

“As you keep reminding me.” She castles and takes another swig from the gin bottle.

The dead girl knows the rules for the game. Every evening for ten years, she and the pirate have met in his cabin at midnight, and every night, she has lost.

They have alternated the boards, the pieces, the colors. But they have always played for ownership of her soul.

Tonight, however, there is a storm.

The sea on which the ship lies rocks the contents of the cabin uneasily. The girl has never been able to place the sea. It seems to stretch in all directions from the deck.

For as long as recent memory serves, she has never seen land from the ship. And there has never, ever been a storm.

“A soul for a soul,” says the pirate, his eyes focused intently on hers. “All you have to do is give me one in exchange for your own.”

For the moment, the board beneath him escapes his notice. The storm rumbles, the ship shifts, and a single pawn slides left. The girl smiles.

“I would rather play chess,” she says, and checkmates his king.

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03

FACULTY

Mr. Matt Dubocq A solitary tear falls to the ground Eyes that look for help find lies and pain Day after day, no light no truth no sound Only shadows in the heavy fog reign But then the heavens rip and light breaks through Hope is found, a breeze returns, it brings peace Now a smile a spark, a fresh fire makes new Praise to God, His grace and love not to cease A Masterpiece carved by her Father’s hand A woman’s journey to the promised Land!

Mr. Dubocq teaches Apologetics and a course on the book of Romans at Westminster. When he isn’t teaching, he can be found preaching, and this is how he found his interest for writing and communication. The piece he submitted was inspired by a friend. “I wrote this about a friend who was going through a difficult storm

at the time, and the only way out was through Jesus. This work was meant for them, and I hope it is able to inspire others who read it”.

Mr. Dubocq is a writer, a teacher, and a preacher, but many do not know he also has a black-belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu.

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The Rescue

Mrs. Angela Castano

Mrs. Angela Castano Darkness all around me, The whispers in my ear, “God does not care about you.

If so, he would be here.”

I feel my throat is closing, As if to grasp for air.

The desperation is so great, The answer is nowhere.

“Be still and know that I am God” Is all that comes to mind.

He is my rock on which I stand, The mountain that I climb.

I have seen the evil of this world, The nights of endless sleep.

The storms of life that haunt our dreams, That fear that sinks us deep.

Yet I can say with bold resolve, From depths and valleys low, There is no other name but Christ, That can restore my soul.

Mrs. Castano is an English teacher at Westminster, and this will be her fourth year sponsoring the Literary Magazine at Westminster Christian School. She is originally from Austin, Texas, and she attended Rice University, where she majored in history and Spanish. While at Rice, she met her husband, Alex, who grew up in Miami. They have seven children, and are excited to welcome their first grandchild this summer!

This year’s Literary Magazine theme, “In the Eye of the Storm,” reminded her of the tumultuous year she experienced in 2020 due to the COVID pandemic. “The initial fear of the unknown, the chaos of trying to find toilet paper (!) and cook enough food to feed my family- many of whom were forced to return home from college or work online from home-was a burden many of us can relate to. However, God not only sustained me through this time, but he actually provided me with enormous blessings I would have never experienced were it not for the pandemic. I will always have fond memories of sharing online church services with my family while we ate brunch in the living room. The wonderful, spontaneous conversations that came out of ‘baking days’ that my children and I shared are priceless.

Moreover, the time to reevaluate my ‘outof-control,’ whirlwind of a life pre-COVID, made me see God and His mercies in a new light. I am forever changed by this season of COVID, and that was the inspiration for my poem, ‘The Rescue.’”

Watching Over Me Mrs. April Sharpe-Shirk Charcoal drawing “This piece represents those that we have lost, but we are intrinsically linked to; we pray they are watching over us from Heaven.”

Mrs. April Sharpe-Shirk

Mrs. Sharpe teaches fine arts at Westminster and loves encouraging students to submit their work to the literary magazine. She also loves creating her own.

“My submissions relate to the theme of this year’s literary magazine in very different ways. Hope > Cost (the collage) reminds us that our faith and hope need to remain strong during the most difficult times, especially when the stakes are high. I lean on Proverbs 3:5-6 to remind me to trust in the Lord amidst the social injustices in our world: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart; and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight”.

Watching Over Me (the charcoal drawing) is an intensely personal piece that is inspired by the loss of my son,

Hope > Cost Mrs. April Sharpe-Shirk Collage, ink stripper, and acrylic “This work illustrates visions of worldwide conflict that come with a price, while we look to God for wisdom to comprehend the losses.”

Maverick. It was the most tumultuous storm of my life, and this drawing symbolizes our endless connection.

I love the theme of this year’s literary magazine because it is important to recognize the storms in our lives. There is beauty in brokenness, and how we weather these difficult times defines who we are. I believe that we cannot truly appreciate joy without experiencing pain.

I love art’s ability to communicate across language barriers. Art gives me the power to articulate and share feelings that others can then interpret in their own unique way.”

Before working as a teacher, Mrs. Sharpe was a successful artist herself, creating a vast range of different works. She also worked for three years at the Miami Seaquarium as a marine mammal trainer.

04

EDITORS

Flaming Hot Cheetos Ana Vega ‘21 Mixed media “This piece illustrates a zest for life and how we can fight through any storm that life throws at us.”

Ana Vega Assistant Editor Art & Photography

“Oh, to be in a global pandemic. Seems quite strange if you’d ask me. You read about history, which is filled with a surprising amount of plagues and diseases. But to think, a pandemic happening now? It’s crazy. Although the concept isn’t new, since you do read about it in the textbooks of your history classes, watching it unfold before your eyes is entirely different. That’s what the WCS Literary Magazine wished to highlight: uncertainty, to bring it forward by materializing it through our student body’s creative mind.

We are truly in the eye of a storm this very moment.

We are here living it with everyone, virtually or with masks. Yet, we wanted our theme to touch every single aspect of a person’s character as well. It was not just about the pandemic, but our hardships too. I’ve been here my whole life, since first grade, and it’s a bittersweet feeling to see this school grow alongside me.

Now, I’m a senior heading off to Rollins College, ready to study Secondary Education and become a teacher for the next generation and the generations that come after that. I’m quite happy I could spend my last year at this school as part of the Literary Magazine Staff.

So I encourage anyone interested to contribute to next year’s magazine. I had a really good experience with this team: Mrs. Castano, Austin, and Gianna.

They were great, so I know you’d enjoy being part of this team too.”

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Winter Gianna Birkeland ‘21

The winter blizzard had finally begun its dreary trek, trudging through the small towns as if they were fragile brambles. It scoured the countryside, ravaged family barns, and cornered entire congregations, to the point where a stale crust of sourdough bread could be bought for a family’s fortune. It was cold. Deadly cold.

No tears could be shed in the shelter of the cottages, for as soon as a tear embarked down a sodden mother’s face, it crystalized into a painful dagger, frozen forever in pain. However, this blizzard was the first of the many tormentors swept into the storm.

First, there came the hail, bullets from the sky that pierced wooden homes like a sewing needle through cloth. Puncture after puncture each home was littered with holes, as if some monstrous termite had made an early banquet out of the rustic houses. But that was just the beginning.

The wolves were next, whining and snarling their way through the village.

Never before had the terrified villagers seen such elusive creatures so brazenly trod through the man-made streets. The tundra had changed the beasts, their once timid countenance morphed into that of a berserk, crazed entity. They traveled in packs of forty, ranging from the lanky, skeleton-like teens, who had barely been alive in this world before they were thrown into the dog pit. The old and wizen hung behind, too frail to fight their way to the front of the mob. They could only hope for a shell of a bone, a morsel of a marrow, facing once again a harsh, brutal winter.

These wolves were led by four alpha couples, monstrous creatures that stood a head taller than the average man. They worked

cunningly, waiting until clueless domestic cattle trudged alongside the fence’s post, hoping to find a trampled weed. Then, like a whirling tornado of claws and teeth, the wolves pounced. Soon, these wolves worked their way around the village’s perimeter, flooding through the town with the precision of an army battalion. It was not long until not a single cattle hair was left. Then came the pillagers.

In the final stage of the winter season, these bachelor men, exiled from the village in a time of fruition, returned with a vengeance. They brandished weapons raging from all kinds of sophistication, from pitchforks, torches, and knives, to sharpened sticks, bone, and even crumbled brick. They came as a rampage, tormenting each village home until they could spare a musty bowl of watery soup, flavored with the yellowed grasses of fall, or the bony crust of bread. This continued non-stop for weeks on end, until finally the blizzard corralled the men back to the forest. It was then that the blizzard began to show mercy.

It started with the lessened passage of the wind. By this time, the blizzard had become weak, its lifespan coming to a close with the threat of warmer times.

After a long, stretched out period of time, the remaining villagers waited in agony for a strand of hope, until one day, a warm, neutral breeze freshened the homes of the town. Thus, a new cycle was reborn, and the village once again began to grow from the trodden bramble it had become.

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Gianna Birkeland Assistant Editor Prose & Poetry

“The theme of In the Eye of the Storm is unique, because I feel as though it can be interpreted on a personal level however an individual chooses.

Whether literal or figurative, the eye of the storm serves to represent challenges the natural world presents and the way in which people may adapt and overcome.

My submission of the winter village relates to challenges of the natural world and the passage of time that brought the different setbacks to the community.

It doesn’t serve an underlying message, but an insight onto the challenges faced by a world devoid of accommodative tech.

As assistant editor of the literary magazine, my favorite memory has to be when we chose the theme for this year’s edition. It was amazing to be able to find a theme to relate to such a challenging year, and find a way to turn around the negative connotation of quarantine into a message of growth and creativity.

My favorite form of writing is poetry. I love how an individual can express their thought process simply in the from of articulated phrases. It doesn’t have to be concise, refined, or definitive, giving poetry the familial feeling I always experience being able to transcribe another person’s words.

I have been attending Westminster since sixth grade. I am an avid J.D Salinger, Michael Crichton, and Charlotte Bronte fan, and am inspired by many brilliant authors to express myself through my writing.

In my free time, I enjoy martial arts, and am currently a camo belt at ATA taekwondo. I’ve always wanted to be involved in wildlife conservation, and in addition to my position of Assistant Editor, I work as the President of Green Club, Vice President of Book Club, and a tutor. I hope to share my skills to improve and better the world around me, regardless of how big or small that impact be. I plan to attend FSU next year, and study in the field of pre-med.”

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I Heard the Thunder Roll Austin Jones ‘22 The storm was near I shed a tear Stole back my passing soul A flash of light A wondrous sight I heard the thunder roll

Two sides of one No need to run Or hide down in a hole Without the dark There is no spark I heard the thunder roll

A cloak of black The thief was back I tried to take control A rod of white Lit up the night I heard the thunder roll

I used the rest As I was blessed To give back what I stole No longer down I wore a crown I heard the thunder roll

A hurricane Had come and slain Its eyes as black as coal The life around Came crashing down I heard the thunder roll

I closed my eyes Spoke my goodbyes Stood up to pay my toll Long past my time It was a crime I heard the thunder roll

But through the noise Of what destroys I saw the earth grow whole There was a pact Despite the fact I heard the thunder roll

I turned my head With no more dread My heart finally full And one last sound Then I was found I heard the thunder roll.

I spent my years With all these fears The storm would play its role I did concede Could no more plead I heard the thunder roll

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Austin Jones Editor-in-Chief Design & Layout

Before he became Editor-in-Chief of the literary magazine, Austin won first place in the prose category two times in a row. When he became a staff member in 2019, he wanted to “make the magazine not only a literary one, but an artistic one as well, incorporating elements of design into the layout itself, creating graphics that unify the magazine, and blending the writing with the art to make a new volume of Roots that stands out and represents the writing and artistic talent of Westminster.” As the graphic designer and lead editor of this year’s magazine, the project was a huge undertaking for him, but he feels it is an extraordinarily special editon. “I’m overjoyed to see how many different ways people interpreted this year’s theme of ‘In the Eye of the Storm’. It was a hard one, as it required more abstract thinking, and so I congratulate everyone in being so imaginative. The creativity in our staff and student body is simply astounding, and I think this magazine shows it very well.”

“When I sat down to write something, I wanted to show a side of the storm that others might not always see. I’ve always found dangerous things to be, oddly, the most fascinating: the ocean, space, Antarctica, and of course, storms. I think what makes these things so beautiful is the uncertainty of being in their presence, or, in other words, the unknown of them.

Death is also one of these things. We fear it because we long to stay in the here and now- the known. However, if we realize that death is what gives life value, we begin to understand and appreciate it. There is no light without the dark. It’s actually the element of finity that makes life truly worth living. Although my poem can be interpreted in many ways, this is what I aimed to highlight when writing it. Once we see the balance, we can lose our fear of death and embrace the power of life.”

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“I am so blessed to be a part of this incredible staff of Editors for the Literary Magazine this year. Austin, thank you for your dedication to spearhead another remarkable magazine as Editor-in-Chief for the second year. You possess a gifted ability to visualize an abstract concept and formulate it into an amazing publication. Gianna, thank you for joining our staff this year as the Writing Editor. You have done a marvelous job assisting with the promotion and organization of the contest, as well as the magazine. Finally, Ana, our “spunky” Art Editor, you have generated an excitement and passion for both art and photography amongst us all, and we thank you!”

Mrs. Angela Castano, Literary Magazine Sponsor

roots Cover photo by Tom Barrett on Unsplash.

Created by the Literary Magazine Staff at Westminster Christian School. Roots is the high school literary magazine of Westminster Christian School, publishing unique works of fiction, non-fiction, photography, and art created by current and previous Westminster Christian School high school students and staff. Roots is edited and designed by an all-student staff, sponsored by the English Department, and funded by Westminster Christian School. ©2021 Roots. Printed in the United States. All rights reserved. No reproduction or use without permission.

“The trunks of the trees reach up to the sky, the bark peeling and branches poking out at all angles, bearing dark green leaves that fall with the pouring rain. Her eyes search the fields of ankle-deep plants, bright flowers of reds, pinks, yellows, and blues, though it is hard to see through her clouded vision. She stares blindly into the bushes and is about to progress forward when she hears a low-pitched growl over the storm...”

Reese de Moya ‘24 pg. 10

roots

Westminster Christian School | Literary Magazine 2021 Edition