PUBLISHERâ€™S NOTE The publication of this literary magazine is made possible through the sponsorship of Andrews McMeel Universal companies in honor of James F. Andrews, co-founder of Universal Press Syndicates. John P. McMeel, chairman of AMU and companies, and Kathleen W. Andrews, chief executive officer of Andrews McMeel Publishing, established the literary magazine program in his memory after his death in 1980. Jim Andrewsâ€™ interest in nurturing and developing artistic and creative writing talent is reflected in the program, which provides young men and women the opportunity to express and cultivate those talents.
W I N D M OOR 2011-2012 St. Teresaâ€™s Academy 5600 Main Street Kansas City, MO 64113 windmoorwired.com
table of contents 4-5 Lucy Edmonds, Lena White
6-7 Mary Cate Feuerborn, Rose Hutchison, Tessa Smith
8-9 Rosemary McGraw, Bailey Whitehead
10-11 Natalie Winterman
12-13 Ema Brzon, Hanna Katz
14-15 Gloria Cowdin, Taylor Rees, Maggie Jo Rellihan
16-17 Jacqueline Kerr
18-19 Lucy Edmonds, Lena White
20-21 Danielle Gatapia, Natalie Nuessle
22-23 Anna Leach, Brenna Palmer
24-25 Bree Begnaud, Mary Grace Maschler
26-27 Grace Hodes, Katerina Waller
28-29 Jordan Allen, Katie Crow
30-31 Kate Needham, Rowan O’Brien-Williams, Celia O’Flaherty
32-33 Grace Dominique, Rosemary McGraw
34-35 Miranda Johnson
37-39 Christie Fletcher, Peyton Gajan, Anna Leach
40-41 Emily Reboulet, Taylor Steen, Bailey Whitehead, Erica Wind
42-43 Taylor Rees, Adele Smith
44-45 Shelby Hawkins, Cricket Martin
46-47 Katie Crow, Rowan O’Brien-Williams
48-49 Rachel Fosselman, Lena White
50-51 Madalyn Doyle, Hannah Haywood 52-53 Kathleen Nicely, Maggie Jo Rellihan 54-55 Liz Mitchell, Bailey Whitehead 56-57 Mary Grace Maschler, Anna McDonald, Cori Mroz, Tessa Smith 58-59 Katerina Waller, Bailey Whitehead 4
60 Staff Page
Jordan Allen 28, 29
Mary Grace Maschler 25, 56
Bree Begnaud 24
Anna McDonald 56
Ema Brzon 13
Rosemary McGraw 8, 9, 33
Gloria Cowdin 15
Liz Mitchell 54
Cori Mroz 57
Kate Needham 30
Kathleen Nicely 53
Katie Crow 29, 46 Grace Dominique 32 Madalyn Doyle 50, 51
Lucy Edmonds 4, 5, 18, 19 Mary Cate Feuerborn 6
Christie Fletcher 36, 38, 39 Rachel Fosselman 48, 49
Natalie Nuessle 21 Rowan O’Brien-Williams 30, 47 Celia O’Flaherty 31
Brenna Palmer 22, 23
Danielle Gatapia 20
Emily Reboulet 41
Peyton Gajan 39
Taylor Rees 15, 42, 43
Shelby Hawkins 44
Maggie Jo Rellihan 14, 52, 53
Hannah Haywood 51
Adele Smith 42
Tessa Smith 6, 57
Taylor Steen 40
Katerina Waller 26, 59
Grace Hodes 26, 27 Rose Hutchison 7 Miranda Johnson 34, 35 Hanna Katz 12
Jacqueline Kerr 16, 17
Lena White 5, 18, 49
Anna Leach 22,37
Erica Wind 40
Cricket Martin 45
Bailey Whitehead 8, 9, 41, 55, 58, 59
Natalie Winterman 10, 11
PHOTOGRAPHY - Natalie Winterman, ‘13
PHOTOGRAPHY - Lucy Edmonds, ‘12
Of Age The absolute second she turned eighteen she had a zipper tattooed down her spine. “I like to pretend I can take my skin off,” she explained to me over the last of her father’s favorite bottle of scotch, and at the time, her rationale was an A+ in reason. “Doctor,” she said mildly from her rustling paper-and-vinyl throne “I swear that I don’t spend my nights wishing I was stoned, I don’t know who gave you that idea.” Later that night we inhaled smoke and Santana and Jim Morrison and c’mon baby, light my fire cause you’re so smooth and you said, “pay it forward” and I said, “no deal.” She spent last summer wandering around with pathetic rhetoric echoing in her ears and mediocre adverbs growing under her fingernails. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it,” she insisted as I backed into a corner and the soles of her sneakers baked into the concrete. At nineteen, she’s lost interest in scotch and smoke and smooth, and I hear she’s thinking of having that zipper lasered clean off. POETRY - Lena White, 13’
The Life Cycle of a Mother She missed. It developed. She worried. It changed. She went. It beat. She cried. It grew. She prepared. He grew. She suffered. He grew. He grew. He grew. She grew. He kicked. She smiled. He turned. She broke. He dropped. She pushed, pushed, pushed. He cried. She wept. He breathed. She loved. He slept. She smiled. He awakened. She named. He grew. She shrank. He crawled. She bawled. He walked. She disbelieved. He talked. She laughed. He grew. She cried. He learned. She learned. He told. She listened. He created. She helped. He cried. She consoled. He misbehaved. She reprimanded. He apologized. She forgave. He transformed. She adapted. He played. She cheered. He grew, grew, grew. She accepted. He changed. She changed. He matured. She aged. He liked. She ignored. He finished. She applauded. He left. She wept. He partied. She missed. He returned. She rejoiced. He worked. She retired. He married. She gained. He reproduced, reproduced, reproduced. She loved. He hosted. She attended. He traveled. She babysat. He aged. She aged. He moved. She missed. He missed. She hurt. He worried. She suffered. He suffered. She died. He lost. She watched. He knew. POETRY - Mary Cate Feuerborn, â€˜12 ARTWORK - Tessa Smith, â€˜14
PHOTOGRAPHY - Rose Hutchison, ‘13
and many other students are sitting in anatomy class taking notes and listening intently to the teacher’s lecture over the cardiovascular system. I have just reached complete concentration on the difference between arteries and veins, when suddenly, the girl in front of me begins to awkwardly bend her head to the left with her hand. Her strange stretching technique instantly seizes my attention from the board. As I begin questioning how in God’s name she is that flexible, I am abruptly acquainted with a large “CRACK”. I immediately cringe and brace for her to keel over in her chair by accidentally paralyzing herself. A second passes and I’m about to jump out of my seat to perform what life-guarding skills I can muster to aid a spinal victim, when she goes back to jotting down notes. Obviously, this girl is in no sort of agony and seems to still be in good health. But please do tell me, what is the point of maneuvering one’s bones to make a dreadful and blood-curdling sound?
SNAP Crackle POP This is one of the many bone-cracking incidents I have encountered throughout my years of schooling. During grade school, I grew immune to the usual and frequent knuckle popping and knee cracking. These types produce minute sounds, therefore I do not mind them. However, ever since I reached high school, my classmates have increased the necessity and intensity of bone popping to the neck and back regions. I wouldn’t mind these types if they weren’t absolutely and utterly revolting. Someone popping their back literally sounds like the person is individually breaking each vertebrae. And referring back to my anatomy class experience, I totally thought the student cracking her neck was paralyzed since it emitted the loudest sound I have ever heard a bone 10
PHOTOGRAPHY- Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
PROSE- Rosemary McGraw, ‘12
produce. Additionally, not only is cracking bones repulsive, it’s disruptive. When I’m in class, I do not want to be distracted by something that is not even in the slightest entertaining or relieving from the boring lesson that’s going on in class. I would much rather watch someone tap their pencil than witness you strategically and harshly force your neck and back into abnormal positions. On the other hand, I actually might like what we are doing in class, such as an educational video in sociology, and your routine back popping noises instantly ruin my peaceful educational moment. Crack your bones on your own time. However, it may seem back and neck cracking is my last straw, but I am only getting started. I draw the line once an individual asks ME to pop THEIR back. Have you lost your mind?! Let me get this straight: you want me to lift you up and squeeze you until your back is completely cracked? One, this is out of my comfort zone. Two, there will be popping bones closer to me than I wish them to be. And three, I have the potential and ultimate power to literally break you. And not to mention, have you ever heard the saying, “keep your hands to yourself”? Yeah, that definitely applies here. Nothing good will come of this, but only an unpleasant noise and my extreme urge to vomit. Yes, I do understand that cracking bones is a habit. I admit, I pop my knuckles every now and then. However, the popping that fingers and toes make are more like the popping you hear in your bowl full of Rice Krispies. Back and neck cracking literally sounds like the bones are breaking. I truly feel that these forms of cracking and popping are just an accident waiting to happen. Therefore, this rant is not only to help me and my comfort levels, but it’s also destined to aid you and your well being. So for your sake and mine, stop with the cracking, popping, and snapping. It will not end well for either of us. 11
12 PHOTOGRAPHY - Natalie Winterman, â€˜13
Dear College Admissions Officer Who Emailed Me in Curlz MT Font, You have got to be kidding me. First, I’m going to put aside the amount of time it took you to respond to my email. Let’s just say, that if I took that amount of time to respond, you wouldn’t consider my application. That aside, if you are going to email me back in this font, not only am I not going to read your email, but I may not apply to your institution. For every school paper or typed assignment, I have only used Times New Roman or Arial. In fact, when teachers gave examples of fonts not to use, this font was always at the top of the list. Let me tell you why. It looks stupid. That is really the only way to say it. This font looks downright childish. The juvenile curves on either end of the letters are distracting enough to confuse any reader. It shouldn’t take me five minutes to read the two sentences you sent me. Second, you look stupid. Your assumed IQ drops about thirty points when you use this font. In third grade, when I tried to use this font for an assignment, my teacher told me that none of my future educators would accept an assignment that looked so unprofessional. Normal serifs exist to lead the reader’s eye smoothly from one letter to the next. The “curlz” lead my eye on a hopeless, headache inducing path. Finally, I can’t read it. I really hope whatever you said in that email was not important. I couldn’t decipher a word of it. I’m going to assume that you said I’m accepted to your College, sans application, with a full ride scholarship, a signing bonus, plus a study abroad program that includes a trip around Europe, South America and Asia paid for, in full, by your College. I’ll see you next August. Sincerely, Hanna Katz College Class of 2016 14
PROSE - Hanna Katz, ‘12
ARTWORK - Ema Brzon, ‘13
16 PHOTOGRAPHY - Maggie Jo Rellihan, ‘13
POETRY - Taylor Rees, ‘13
she taught me how to sing for myself. my vocal chords are lined with dark feathers while this nightingale perches herself on the veins of my heart was i imprisoned until now? never knowing that i could make such a sound? was i scared to be brave, feeling jaded and barely alive or was it the day that this little nightingale was born that she flew down my throat and made her nest just under my ribcage... that i leraned... how to sing... i belt out my song through the noise, the dark, and the silent day, and wait for it to echo under you and make you turn this way i smile and watch the room flip over i will never sink any lower i will just sing just like this nightingale taught me she stays in my lungs to this day, never flying away we sing to each other each other’s company we keep i’m going to live my life with a nightingale sleeping in my very breath and one day i’ll teach my children to sing with a warbler in theirs.
ARTWORK - Gloria Cowdin, ‘15
ARTWORK- Jacqueline Kerr, ‘12
Please don’t go. There are words I have yet to write blossoming at the peaks of your cheekbones and every time your head eclipses the moon, I fade a little further into the dark. There was nothing special or poetic about the moon that night, anyway, but we were set on a collision course and the impact of our respective planets somehow made a spark. And now it’s two A.M. And the moon is full again, only this time it’s magical and I’m trying to remember a time when the collision of lips meant more than the collision of hips and I’ve spent the last two hours hammering out a eulogy for my handwriting and when I looked up, there was nothing there. I haven’t written a decent poem since the moment my heart began to beat and I can’t remember how I passed my embryonic time, but I think I must have been searching for a word for the way your hand felt in mine. There’s something cheap about my words these days. They’re not silver, they’re an alloy that leaves me smelling metallic. I’m a tin woman and my bones are collapsing under your weight. Please don’t stay.
PHOTOGRAPHY - Lucy Edmonds, ‘12
POETRY - Lena White, ‘13
PHOTOGRAPHY - Danielle Gatapia ‘12
Once upon a time, there was a little singularity. The singularity was so small in fact, no one could see it. It was smaller than an ant, smaller than a grain of dust, and even smaller than an atom. For a long time, the singularity just sat there, doing nothing. After a long time, the singularity began to think to itself, “Who am I? What am I? Why am I here?” It pondered these questions for awhile. “I shall call myself a singularity,” it decided, “because I am the only thing I can see in this void. I’m unique and important. I must be here to create something great, something wonderful and beautiful. It’s unlimited, the possibility of this new thing; I will call it the universe, because it will compass everything.” Suddenly, the singularity was so happy, it exploded. Don’t be scared, the singularity wasn’t destroyed; instead it really became it’s creation. The universe expanded and met others like itself. The universe was so happy to meet these other places. It declared, “I’m so happy!” Then, instead of slowing and stopping it’s expansion, the universe continues to get bigger and better itself today.
POETRY - Natalie Nuessle ‘14
PHOTOGRAPHY 1. Anna Leach, ‘14 2. Brenna Palmer, ‘12 3. Anna Leach, ‘14 4. Brenna Palmer, ‘12 5. Brenna Palmer, ‘12
ARTWORK (left) Bree Begnaud, ‘14; (above) Mary Grace Maschler ‘14
I did not mean to fall in love with you, Yet here you came and found me, held me tight. You chased me and you caught me, yes - It’s trueLike shining Moon chased Sun all through the night. Sun walks away from Moon at the end of the day, But Moon will follow sun through blackest dark For Moon, sans Sun, is left in disarray. So gladly on this chase does Moon embark. But then Moon sets and opens up the sky For Sun to light the world up with its beams. With morning light Sun finds it can’t deny The love it holds for Moon found in its dreams. I never looked for love - It looked for me. Your love found mine and joined us endlessly.
POETRY - Katarina Waller. ‘12
PHOTOGRAPHY- Grace Hodes ‘13
PHOTOGRAPHY - Jordan Allen, ‘13
The boy who could fly
Her fingers on his skin, his hands on her waist. Their lips pulled away. The story had begun. His eyes deep in hers, her heartbeat fast, Their fingers entwined The story got shaky. A dance, bodies held close secrets shared, loves found. A fairytale begun. They fought, he hit her, and she cried. She cursed his name. Story turned into a nightmare. A black night, the hospital light shining on the stars, She cried in the room. The story came to a slow end. She held his hand, and wished him farewell, kissed him goodbye. The timing wasn’t right. They pulled the plug, and she whispered “Fly away.” The fairytale continued on. POETRY - Katie Crow, ‘14
I call your stage a home where artists dream The stories told of great and common men A make-believe but ever-flowing stream With all the world in one instant poured in. As gods we sing our souls from part to part And dance as spirits with groundlings at our toes But men create beyond themselves an art That hath still beauty when lights rise at the close. Love as the doomed Queen nourished in her veins For that lost prince I pledge I bear to you; I’d give up all, but your keen eye remains You gather in your wings the lucky few. But if in time you judge my talent coarse, I’ve lived your art; it hath not been for worse.
PHOTOGRAPHY - Rowan O’Brien-Williams, 12’
POETRY - Kate Needham, ‘12
PHOTOGRAPHY - Celia O’Flaherty, ‘12
34 PHOTOGRAPHY - Grace Dominique, ‘13
She wakes. She showers. She dresses. She eats. She leaves. She arrives. She trudges. They whisper She stops. She listens. She looks. They snicker. She cringes. She walks. They taunt. She quickens. They chase. She hides. They find. She runs. They grab. They push. They pull. She falls. They kick. She bleeds. They leave. She stays. She hurts. She cries. She struggles. She rises. She walks. He drives. He notices. He recognizes. He stops. He asks. She mumbles. He persists. She ignores. He offers. She accepts. She sits. He drives. They park. He asks. She mutters. He asks. She folds. She explains. He grimaces. She cries. He hugs. He consoles. She shakes. He holds. She thanks. She exits. She enters. She crumbles. She cries. She notices. She thinks. She turns. She thinks. She retraces. She stares. She sighs. She rises. She grabs. She stares. She breathes. She opens. She pours. She shakes. She cries. She swallows. She sits. She waits. She collapses. She sleeps. She sleeps. She sleeps... They find. They gasp. They hold. They cry. They yell. They grab. They call. They arrive. They carry. They cover. They take. They knock. He opens. They gaze. He greets. They sigh. He hesitates. He asks. They explain. He interrupts. They cry. He asks. They continue. He breaks. They console. He falls.
PROSE - Rosemary McGraw, â€˜12
ARTWORK - Miranda Johnson, â€˜12
The old woman, worn and unknowing, sat in the passenger seat of her grandson’s Chevy. She stared at the window next to her, glancing between the green trees outside the car and the eviction notice in her lap inside. She wasn’t sure where she was going or why, but she knew deep down to trust her grandson. Evan, her loving grandchild, had always been there for her and always helped her with everything since she could remember. She loved him very much for being the only one, she thought, who still tried to help her, but she was still scared not knowing where their destination was or the reasoning. As she was about to ask the boy her questions, they turned onto an old, gravelly road, leading to a rocky driveway that fed into a house as old as the woman. The pale blue, two-story house sat on the edge of a beautiful valley of overgrown grass and flowering trees. The landscape itself was breathtaking, but it was the house that drew the fatigued woman’s attention. It’s crumbling siding looked the color of the sky to her with feathery white clouds where the paint had deteriorated. It’s olive green shutters, once proud as they gazed out from the wide windows, now looked broken and unstable. Of all these new but somehow familiar details the woman saw, the olive green door, painted the same color as the shutters, and holding a tattered wreath, was what she could not take her eyes from. Everything looked vaguely familiar but she knew nothing of what this house once was. 38
“Grandma Velda, we’re here,” Evan’s sweet voice announced. “Where, child?” Velda replied. “You and Grandpa Robert’s home,” he said patiently. Mind racing, Velda quietly sat in the car, searching for anything to remind her of this house, of this Robert. As she thought, Evan got out of the car, crossed in front to the other side, and helped Velda out of the passenger seat. Once she made her way out, Evan led her towards the green door that had seen so many memories dismissed from Velda’s mind so long ago. Inside felt dark, though the many, large windows flooded the room with light. Forlorn and battered, the house creaked with every movement the boy and his grandmother made. The old woman looked around her, inspecting every space, looking for remnants of a forgotten life. The open, wallpapered area with a large chimney to her right, maybe used once for a main room, was falling apart with sections of patterned wallpaper ripped from the walls, exposing the beaten white wall beneath. The large space to her left, perhaps a dining room, was empty and sad. A hallway leading to the rooms in the back of the house shared the space with a long wooden staircase. As Velda walked down the hallway towards the back of the house, she looked up the stairs. Oily marks appeared on walls where pleasure moments hung before. She longed to recall what memories once
PHOTOGRAPHY - Anna Leach, ‘14
hung on this wall, but all she could do was shuffle down the hall with Evan at her side. The back of the house was just as desolate as the front: a space, no larger than a sitting room, with floors scratched and beaten, was empty except for the toy train and sewing machine. “This was my home?” Velda asked, sadly. “Yes. For over 60 years,” Evan said slowly. “When did I leave?” “After Grandpa Robert passed and you contracted Alzheimer’s, the family decided to move you,” he replied. “And I suppose they just forgot about me after that,” Velda responded bitterly. “Of course not, Grandma! The whole family visits you often; we were all with you yesterday,” he assured her. Ashamed of how sure she had become that her family no longer cared for her and still grasping for reminders of her life in this house, she became silent and continued into the last room downstairs. As she entered, the bright yellow walls that once made this kitchen so happy flooded her mind with memories: the countless days over 60 years she spent in that kitchen cooking for all of her children and grandchildren, the sewing machine in the next room she refused to give up no matter how many problems it had, the toy train that had been passed down from generation to generation, becoming a treasure to every child that belonged to this house. She thought of the hundreds of pictures that covered that walls for so many years, 40
of the stories shared around the fireplace, of the countless meals eaten in that dining room, of the hundreds of games of Hide and Seek played in front of that beautiful door. As the realization spread through her, filling every inch of her body with love, sorrow, and gratefulness, she collapsed into tears. Falling to her knees, she sobbed for all of the forgotten laughs and tears shed, pain and joy felt, hunger and satisfaction tasted, everything lost in time. She had remembered so much throughout her life; how could she have lost her life so quickly? Evan sped to her side and held her as her tears spilled onto the dirty tiles. Patiently, he sat holding her as she cried. Evan reminded Velda of her husband, Robert, of how much she missed him. She cried even harder from the pain of missing the husband and the pain of forgetting her dearest love. Robert was always so kind and took such good care of her. How could she repay how much he gave and loved her by forgetting him completely? She was enraged by her selfishness. “Grandma Velda, don’t blame yourself; you can’t control what you remember,” Evan spoke as if he had read her thoughts. “We all know you love us.” “How could I forget Robert like that?” Velda cried. “Don’t blame yourself. You love Grandpa Robert. You always have and always will and deep down, I think you never forget that,” he answered. “It’s not fair,” She muttered. Evan nodded and gave her a hug of
reassurance. His arms wrapped around her frail, thin body like a blanket and Velda sat there, wishing she had never forgotten. Finally, she asked, “Why am I here?” “You received an eviction notice in the mail last week. Father was unsure of whether to fight to keep the house or to finally give it up. We decided that you should make that choice, so I brought you here,” the boy replied. “You can’t give this house up. Please? It’s all I have left,” she uttered. “It’s not all you have, Grandma. But we know this house is special to you. It’s special to all of us,” he responded, smiling. “So, you won’t give it up?” Velda questioned. “We’ll try.” “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Come on Grandma, it’s getting late. I’ve got to get you home.” “But I thought I was already there,” she added smiling. “You know what I mean,” Evan chuckled. As Velda and her grandson made their way back through the house, she smiled at her memories until she was out of the strong, green door. Once in the car, she stared at the sky blue house, with its proud shutters and breath-taking land. She longed to stay but knew she must trust her grandson. She knew where she was going and what that would lead to. She knew she might not remember anything tomorrow, but she found herself satisfied that she could remember today.
PHOTOGRAPHY - Peyton Gajan, ‘13
PHOTOGRAPHY - Taylor Steen, ‘13 PHOTOGRAPHY - Erica Wind, ‘13
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
PHOTOGRAPHY - Emily Reboulet, ‘13
PHOTOGRAPHY - Adelle Smith, ‘13
Stone roses will be placed on my bedside table every night to remind me that life is unfathomably beautiful. I’ll send three of them, and some metal gardenias to you, to remind you of the same, and simply because gardenias are your favorite flower. They’ll be placed in a glass vase on your table, and you’ll think every day how even though life can be eternal, it can be so limited and painful. And every time the metal of the dahlias begins to rust in the water of that vase, you’ll know the pain of this world. When small flaws of the smooth stone of the roses begin to appear it tells you that i fell once again and scraped my knee, because of a mistake you and i made together. I’ll come over one day, and take them away so you dont have to live with the burden of knowing. Sometimes ignorance IS bliss, because if you actually KNEW...i use that word in the broadest context it can have...it’d be too painful to bear. Now, i’ll give you a bunch of glass forgetmenots, and silver lilies but this time to remind you that i’ll always be there, and that i’ll always be a friend, and to remind you to never forget how i always told you that life is beautiful. Yes, i know our relationship is platonic, and it’s odd for you to recieve flowers from me, but im sure that you’ll appreciate them. PROSE - Taylor Reese, ‘13
PHOTOGRAPHY - Taylor Reese, ‘13
46 ARTWORK - Shelby Hawkins, ‘14
ARTWORK - Cricket Martin, â€˜13
PHOTOGRAPHY - Katie Crow, ‘14
PHOTOGRAPHY - Rowan O’Brien - Williams
ARTWORK - Rachel Fosselman, â€˜15
I sent a memo six day/month/years ago concerning the severity of my descent from holy. I even had it notarized, paid the revenue enhancement and had three little boys as witnesses. And even though I marked it “URGENT,” I saw it unopened in your wastepaper basket when Juliet, your buxom longlegsblondehair secretary carried it out to Roméo, el janitor. And sometimes I want to call you at three in the morning to ask if I’m pretty, because I heard somewhere that people tell the truth when they aren’t fully awake. Dear Mama, I’m going out, be home later, won’t get raped, I promise. I saw the words “No Vacancy” blinking in your rearview mirror, but you never stopped looking forward, and I guess I’ll have to do the same. I’ve been on my toes for 48 hours, and don’t touch me because I don’t want to be seen collapsing like a broken racehorse into your arms. There was never anything wild about me despite the clover chains and grass stains painted between my toes. I always liked something about the confinement of laces and clichés. They mean that you can just STOP THINKING SO HARD.
POETRY - Lena White, ‘13
I’ve stopped writing memos on the bathroom stall walls RE: the day when you finally lose consciousness and resorted to tapping out Morse code soliloquies under the frenetic beat of my fingertips. 51
ARTWORK - Madalyn Doyle, ‘12
ARTWORK - Madalyn Doyle, ‘12
ARTWORK - Hannah Haywood, ‘12
PHOTOGRAPHY - Maggie Jo Rellihan, â€˜13
I sing Along My Narrow
I have walked many miles alone along a narrow brown path dry with dust and soft to my small bare feet, like the grass of a meadow and the scent of the wildflowers, growing on either side of me. It must lead somewhere, since it has been worn before. So I sing of where the path will lead. and sometimes I walk with others beside me. And we talk. And time passes. Soon the path forks, and we go separate ways. And no matter what happens, time will keep going. And I will keep walking forward. And I sing of solitude. Sometimes the path stretches out for miles and miles; I begin to tire of walking my path. So I decide to explore the woods that surround my small brown path. But the moment I drift from the small dirt road, it all disappears from view. I find myself lost with no direction at all the trees all look the same. Craggy roots snare my feet and thorns cut my ankles raw. My cold bare feet are dirty and sore and the sun will not give light. I sing of sadness and pain. The cold grey eye above the trees glares at me with scorn. The silent woods are deafening and the quietest of noises
make me tremble in fear. So I sing of hatred and loss. I find a hollow in a tree and rest there away from the thorns and snares until the light once again pierces through the trees. The mellow sky drifts above the trees, easing my fears. The yellow-pink hue is like spring sakura petals drifting gently from their tree. And I sing of hope. I step out to find my way again, my burning feet are cooled by the dewy grass. I walk on until I find the little indigo flowers I used to love. I gather some in my hands and walk forward. I find myself in a clearing, the ground an ocean of little blue flowers. The air is a sweet melody around me the wind blowing around me sings in jubilation. I dance. I sing with the beautiful world around me. My feet know where they are; I have been here before. And so I walk along my small brown path, with indigo flowers growing at my side, and the morning sun to guide me to wherever this path may lead. I am happy. And I sing. PROSE - Kathleen Nicely, â€˜15
POETRY - Liz Mitchell ‘15
They’re the ones you go to for advice They help you with your problems They’re the ones you look up to And have the most fun with They’re the ones who cry when you do And laugh when you laugh They tease you and make fun of you But you do the same to them They always make you smile Especially when your heart is broken They were the ones who took care of you When your mom wasn’t around They are your best friend That knows all your secrets.
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
ARTWORK - Anna McDonald, ‘13
ARTWORK - Mary Grace Maschler, ‘14
ARTWORK - Cori Mroz, ‘14
ARTWORK - Tessa Smith, ‘14
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
POEM - Katarina Waller, 12
Hello, it’s me again. I haven’t seen you in a while. You were once my closest friend. We spent all our time together. I remember those days we spent in my room with the lights off as I lay in my bed. You were there with me all the while. We became inseparable— I could never go somewhere or do something without you. But recently, we have grown apart. I no longer spend all of my time with you. I have not seen you much lately, other than a passing glance or a brief conversation. But the thing is, I don’t find myself missing you. I no longer need your presence to exist. I have found a new friend, my dear Doubt. I have found a friend in Confidence. I will always remember my time with you, because you have helped make me the person I am today. But I must say that I hope we never grow close again. It’s not you—it’s me. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I hope you understand. Sincerely, Katarina
Shakira’s more sarcastic alter ego fears losing the ability to be verbally sardonic. She wants to travel to India in pursuit of Aladdin. Though, if that is not possible, she would settle for speaking to Daniel Radcliffe, provided he knows Spanish.
Lady Gaga’s alter ego enjoys unhealthily healthy eating, would marry Prince Eric and the smell of the Mediterranean sea. She loves the word “parapluie” and would definitely pick Harry Potter over Twilight. You can call her Bren.
Luna Lovegood’s alter ego would love to visit Pride Rock to meet her future husband, Simba. She loves the smell of newspapers and new books. She does not qualify the question “Harry Potter or Twilight?” as a valid one.
Lena’s favorite color is forest green and she thoroughly enjoys the smell of clean clothes. She greatly fears other humans which might explain why she likes Sher Khan. She would rather study with wizards than with vampires.
Claire McKeonBrenna PalmerH a n n a K a t z L e n a W h i t e
WINDMOOR Bailey WhiteheadA b b y D e a r t hAdrianna OhmesChristina Allen Though some might recongnize her as Austin Powers, her friends affectionately call her Catlicker. She hopes her hardcore sweaters and jackets will attract the attention of her Disney sweetheart, Pinocchio. She has never heard of either Harry Potter or Twilight.
Sasha Fierce’s alter ego wouldn’t mind meeting Shang from Mulan. She really hopes he can play guitar. If forced to choose, Abby wouldn’t hesitate to say Harry Potter far outranks Twilight. This applies to the books and movies.
Though she suffers from Acroillygnaclaustromysoemetophobia, Adri still dreams of her long time crush, Hercules. She enjoys eating salad with honey mustard dressing and would rather hang out with Bella than Hermione.
Chrissy ‘s favorite smell is fabric softener. She fears jumping crickets, but would put up with them in exchange for meeting Prince Eric. She enjoys eating Ceasar salad dressing while conversing with Edward and Jasper Cullen.
Though Momo is known for her Strawberry blonde hair, she knows Prince Charming will love her for more than that. She loves the smell of brownie batter and the taste of Ceasar dressing. She wouldn’t visit Forks or Hogsmeade.
Though she likes greasy hair, her bald prince, Shrek still steals this girl’s heart. You might know her as “that one really cool person” who also really likes pawn shops. She loves the smell of food and her friends call her Seyton.
Sibel thinks Belle should have willingly eaten dinner with the Beast, even if he didn’t serve Ranch dressing. She doesn’t like snakes, even if they are her favorite color, dark red. She loves the smell of rain, especially at Hogwarts.
Even though Mads can’t escape her Robert Pattinson obsession, she would still pick Harry Potter over Twilight. She loves the word “snazzy” and hopes Aladdin will be able to teach her a little more Spanish.
M o l l y C o r l e s sP e y t o n G a j a nSibel AipackinMadeline B e s t
S T A F F 2 012 E m m a R e b e i nShannon McAuliffe K a t i e B e i r n eMaggie Nothnagel With a “hakuna matata” attitude, E-baby is in pursuit of her one true love: Prince Eric. She believes he will share her zealous love for good food and the smell of Casade dishwashing detergent. She wants to meet him in Hogsmeade.
Though Shanoob fears drowning, she thinks Aladdin or Ryan Gosling would come to her rescue. She loves the Spanish word “pantuflas” but doesn’t like getting texts that say “LOL.” Though, it might be ok if the text came from Harry Potter.
Some might mistake this Italian dressing lover to be her alter ego, Claire McKeon, especially since she cannot hide her love for Aladdin. She enjoys the smell of flowers and is more likely to be seen at the Three Broomsticks than in Forks.
Maggie knows she and Chad Michael Murray are meant to be together. She thinks he will love the smell of laundry detergent just as much as she does. She asks that you don’t say the word “chunk” around her, though she would be happy to watch Twilight with you.
Published on Nov 26, 2012
Published yearly through a donation by Andrews McMeel Universal companies in honor of James F. Andrews, the Windmoor literary magazine featu...