The Pendulum Volume Twenty St. Luke’s School377 North Wilton RoadNew Canaan, Connecticut06840Telephone: (203) 966-5612Fax: (203) 972-3450slspendulum@gmail.com

Editor ’s Statement

a·poc·a·lypse1. The complete and final destruction of the world.2. An event involving destruction or damage on an awesome or cata-strophic scale. Apocalypse, as a concept, is pretty topical (and potentially clichéd) in this year 2012. I won’t lie, the theme was inspired by the ludicrous projections of the Mayan calendar (sorry to the believers, but I’m un-der the impression that a stone calendar is pretty limiting). Fire and brimstone also makes for a great color scheme. But I think we tend to look at the concept of apocalypse one-dimensionally. The threat of apocalypse in the literal sense is terrifying – people all over the world have prepared for its impending arrival with food stockpiles, bunkers, and even services to take care of those that are left behind when the chosen ones ascend into Heaven. On the other side, perhaps the meta-phorical mass destruction is scarier (and possibly more real), as allud-ed to in the latter definition. As we slowly and inevitably evolve into robots, will poetry be generated by computers and written in binary? “Shall I compare thee to a 1001101?” Will the humanities eventually be made obsolete, works of T.S. Eliot and historical documents being wiped out completely? Perhaps. There is always, however, the possibil-ity of rebirth. Like a phoenix from the ashes, the written word as an art form will rise again. Maybe someday, our future overlords will find a copy of this edition of The Pendulum among the rubble. A message to them: hey, buddies. Dust this off. Read it. There is hope in words.

Emily Bergmann, Editor-in-Chief

POETRY

Method, Means, Manner, Mode, Etc.-Maria Juran 11

Chemistry-Lizzy McLaughlin 16

Pardon Me, Princess-Christian Langalis 20

Undecided-Caroline Hopkins 21

Launching Time-Allie Ferguson 25

Keep Us-Patrick Quinn 29

Untitled- Charlotte Seiler 32

Faces at a Wedding-Emily Coleman 34

Murder on the Shore-Emily Bergmann 34

DoorKnobs-Collin Hill 35

American Healthcare-Jim Chadwick 35

Fashion Faux Pas-Lauren Pendo 36

Things Are Exactly as They Seem-Collin Hill 39

Ants-Kevin Jahns 45

The Sorrow of the King-Sebastian Bates 46

Tibetan Release-Nicole Bennett-Fite 48

Black Disease-Lexi Zargar 51

In the Old Oak Tree and the Red Stable-Tommy Champion 52

T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S

T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S Richard Harmon’s Alarm Clock-Ben Klein 54

Simone-Emily Bergmann 58

Patrimony-Melanie Bow 59

Date Night #97-Emily Bergmann 62

The Road-Anonymous 63

Les Vaniteux-Tommy Champion 66

NONFICTION

Under the Bed-Ann Abbott Freeman 13

Halloween Postponed-Caroline Hopkins 15

Beware the Fail-Shakes-Britt Viergever 18

FICTION

Happy Halloween-Charlotte Seiler 14

Land for Sand-Mac Zech 22

Something White, Something Red, Something Frightened, Something Dead-Lauren LaBanca 50

Wilhelmshaven, 1926-Alex Robertson 56

ART

Aero Head-Ron Holland 11

Untitled-Andrew Kager 12

A Guy with Some Light-Ana Graczyk 14

Single Brown Bag-Evan Kenagy 15

Brownie Flash-Andrew Kager 17

Tomato Study-Gabi Horowitz 19

Eye of the Ostrich-Gabi Horowtiz 20

Untitled-Andrew Kager 23

Headline Poem-Emily Burnaman 24

Fish Bottle-Sarah Donovan 28

Finch Glow-Christian Walsh 30-31

Man-Gabi Horowitz 32

Daisy Graf fit i-Ben Klein 33

Glass Bottles-Evan Kenagy 35

Bellagio Lobby-Christian Walsh 37

Grasp-Allie Ferguson 38

Fishing-Blake Overlander 44

Cast Away-Allie Ferguson 47

Heat Wave-Peter Baritz 49

Ger many Street-Maggie Sullivan 53

Headline Poem-Danny Serrano 55

Daisy in B&W-Ben Klein 56

Headline Poem-Cam Sargent 60

Still Life with Orange Cloth Flower-Sarah Donovan 61

Israeli Fireman-Ben Klein 63

Ice Layers-Ron Holland 66

Front Cover: Apocalypse-Sam Posner (digital photograph manipulation)

Title page: Pen Tape-Andrew Kager (digital photograph manipulation)

Back cover: Reflection-Blake Overlander (digital photograph)

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Method, Means, Manner, Mode, Etc.Maria Juran

Sometimes I wonderif poetry is myright medium.

What I want to conveyfeels too harsh and heavyfor these minute lines,

feeble,creaking shelvessagging under the weightof tome after tomeof baggage;slim reeds bentin a heavy wind,bowed and scraping the groundfor forgiveness.

Aero Head Digital photographRon Holland

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Untitled Digital photographAndrew Kager

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Under the BedAnn Abbott Freeman

After an extremely unseasonable and rather destructive snowstorm in October, the power went out, and damaged telephone wires led to the demise of cable and the In-ternet. Though our house is blessed with a generator, its magical powers could not restore cable or the Internet. With no form of electronic entertainment, I set out to organize my room. I chose to take on the monsters under the bed first. Mountains and mountains of “stuff ” were uncovered and here is what I found: boxes of journals, that ranged in aromas from apple juice to tequila (consistent with what I had had spilled that got me through the specific tragedies in the stages of my life); posters of superstars (all teen moms and/or drug addicts now); Disney World paraphernalia, baskets of old hobbies and unfinished projects; half knitted hats, partially bedazzled clothing, gadgets that seemed so important at the time: the newest camera, portable picture printers.

Then emerged the old textbooks that I have kept in case I ever forget the quadratic for-mula or how to saw “cow” in Spanish in an Internet-less post-apocalyptic world; neon jeans that I had to have, but never got around to wearing; shoes that will never fit, but have been saved just in case a miracle happens; a collection of china dolls, scratched and smudged with age; stuffed animals that got their owner through the toughest nights; hundreds of DVDs of Bewitched and I Love Lucy, my all time favorite shows, stil l watched; scrapbooks of the best actors and actresses of real Hollywood, from the 20s to the 60s; and unsent rants to boys who had broken my heart, starting with Jack Cooper in first grade who broke his promise never to talk to another girl in our class, all the way up to Greg Lennox in eighth grade who asked me to join in a threesome with his old girlfriend while we were together.

And with each new discovery of my past life, I would either laugh out loud, or cry hys-terically. For I never appreciated the CD player my grandfather bought for me nearly a decade ago, when he could go shopping, when his handwriting on the card with it didn’t lean so far that it nearly fell off the page, as it does now. I never even tore off the plastic wrapping. For this, and the many other neglected toys and books and tacky jewelry from relatives, I wept. Then I found other things, a note declaring my love for my best friend’s devastatingly handsome older brother, and couldn’t help but double over in laughter. I ended up not throwing anything away.

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Happy HalloweenCharlotte Seiler

She put on her fishnet stockings. Donned a bright red wig and went to the closet for the rest of her costume. She fastened the black cat mask and hooked herself into her leotard. Before heading out the door, she grabbed her big and overstuffed parka. She walked out to her bicycle and slowly pedaled her way down the dimly lit street. Other girls and boys were standing in front of houses, waiting to be given the sweet confec-tions all homes supplied on that night. She wished for just one Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup but knew that she would be late. She worked her way to the club, walked onto the stage, and began her nightly routine. Just another night. The same worn costume. The breaking childhood façade.

A Guy with Some Light Digital photographAna Graczyk

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Halloween PostponedCaroline Hopkins

I’m sitting in the Wilton Public Library. On the f loor to my left, four teenage boys are fighting over an outlet for their laptop chargers. A woman to my right yells into her cell phone, and her charger is plugged into an outlet behind my back. It juts into my spine uncomfortably. “Halloween is on Saturday, November fifth,” she repeats insistently. “No, I am not pulling your chain, you’re taking the kids trick-or-treating on Saturday...so cancel them!...The kids will be devastated if they don’t get a Halloween! Why can’t you take them tonight? Because it’s not Halloween anymore, that’s why! Yes, I realize it’s October thirty-first, but I just told you, HALLOWEEN IS CANCELED!” The wom-an hangs up her cell phone with an aggravated grunt. Since when do towns have the authority to cancel a holiday? I turn back toward the outlet to my left, which has been deserted, left only with a single laptop charger plugged in, presumably belonging to one of the aforementioned boys. I glance around twice before hastily removing the plug and inserting my own cell phone charger. Halloween has been canceled. My entire world is thrown to shambles.

Single Brown Bag Pencil drawing Evan Kenagy

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ChemistryLizzy McLaughlin

They’re huddled ‘round their periodic lunch tables,square and socially pyramidal,and I’m at the bottom.

But they’re just f luorine factions,bullies at heart trying to steal my e-lectricitywith their negativity.

Because I’m light,Ultra-violet violence to the eyes,Magnesium burning.Anti-matter meets matter.

And that catalytic, cataclysmic energy is attractive.And they see me. They see, see, see,But I’ve got too many Cs on this side of my false, metallic personality.I’d better balance myself.

Classic ionic, ironic idiocracy.I’ve bonded with you,just compounding the issues‘Cause you’re a complete acetate without a solution:now all I’ve got are problems.

Dot Diagrams are dotted lines separating you from me,because over the years what was a bondbecame a partially negative chargeagainst me.

I was your oxygen, and you were carbon-ated, bubbly and explosive,We would Combust.

But now all’s left but to see, oh, twoof your new girlfriends f lanking your sides,‘cause we’ve decomposed, split, gone off to better things.

Monatomic monotones lace my speech,and I’m pining for something to complete this emp-d shell

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that is myself. ‘Cause I miss what we had.We had chemistry.

Brownie Flash Digital photographAndrew Kager

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Beware the Fail-ShakesBritt Viergever

There is little that I find more suspicious than a poor handshake. I like my handshakes the way I like my sports—fast, firm, and friendly. Anything less is a failed handshake (a fail-shake) and leaves me confused and questioning the genuineness of whomever I have just met, not to mention a tad suspicious of them.

There are several variations of the fail-shake that leave me suspicious, such as the Glue. The Glue is when you start to pull away from the handshake and the shaker hangs on past the appropriate departure time.This handshake unfortunately makes you the bad guy when you have to awkwardly pull your hand away and leave the other person won-dering what they did wrong. Poor sap just doesn’t know how to shake a hand properly.

Next, the Taffy, possibly the most awkward of the fail-shakes, is when you go to pull away from the handshake and the shaker moves with your hand. A combination of the Glue and another layer of awkward, the Taffy seems like it’s a funny little game for the other person. Said Taffy-er often holds your hand, moving it up and down like a wave, or back and forth like a saw. A Taffy-er is like a street mine who silently plays a prank on you and is oblivious to the lack of amusement.

Thirdly, while I certainly endorse a firm handshake, I’m not a supporter of the Hand Hug. The Hand Hug occurs when the shaker seems to embrace your entire hand and smothers it like Paper in Rock-Paper-Scissors. This fail-shake is also fiercely firm, and you walk away subtly stretching and massaging your broken hand to regain feeling in your fingers.

Lastly, the infamous Dead Fish. Of all the fail-shakes, the Dead Fish leaves me the most suspicious of the shaker. This pathetic shake does more than make the recipient feel uncomfortable with its loose grip and quick departure; it makes the recipient feel un-important. There have been too many times when I’ve been left half-shaken, with my hand hanging in the space between the person and me. The Dead Fish seems to say “I don’t really care to talk to you. Here’s a terrible hand-shake. Goodbye.”

The frosting on many of the fail-shake cakes is a lack of eye contact. As my mom used to say, “give ‘em seven.” Five fingers and two eyes. Even with the sloppiest of hand-shakes, if I get eye contact, I at least feel that some genuine thought went into it.

What leaves me most wary and suspicious about the sneaky fail-shakers out there is that you just can’t anticipate who might have a poor handshake by appearance. A large, burly man can have a Dead Fish shake and a little old lady could be a Hand Hugger. The surprise of the lack of etiquette is what really gets me to question a person.

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So to those with a fail-shake: it’s never too late to learn the proper technique. A good handshake is crucial to making a solid first impression. Sure, you could be well quali-fied for a job, but does your interview handshake say “I’m clingy” or “my hands are quite strong, let me show you?” If so, you should probably YouTube a tutorial on How to Handshake.

Tomato Study WatercolorGabi Horowitz

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Pardon Me, PrincessChristian Langalis

I have headbutted youThat is to say,You assaulted me with affectionI only retreated behind my walls in self-defense

But maybe it was wrongTo dance with youOnly to raise the drawbridgeAnd throw alligators in the moat.

Still, you catapulted kissesMore than my knighthood’s honor would allowOr my castle’s keep withstandThat is to say my lips

Eye of the Ostrich WatercolorGabi Horowitz

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UndecidedCaroline Hopkins

“Please discuss your future plans,”A three-inch taunting box awaits empty for its fil l

Demanding me to specify, to choose, to force, to lieDetermining a single path so early on in life

How am I to place a label upon the unforeseen?To do so would be to limit opportunity, to restrict a vast expanse,

to confine a coast of sand into a single hourglass,draw up a fence around a boundless sky,

drain oceans into a vialIf uncertainty determines youth, as so very well it ought,

I face a thief, a robbing inquisition,A ravenous f lashing cursorin thirsty pursuit of youth

Will it be mine he abducts?Or will I shield myself in self-condemning armor,

Declaring the undeclared,Opting to protect my youth, admitting “undecided”

Yet in the act restricting my otherwise unbounded futurethrough the simple choice to do the reverse.

Why must I decide what path my future holdswith not yet a quarter of my years underway,

so many of which have been lost upon an infant mind,clouded with the warranted naivety that childhood entails?

No, I, caught deep in adolescence, will not attempt to determine my “future plans”As future is a f luctuating, f leeting, amorphous variable,

Shaped by experiences not yet experienced, knowledge not yet known, wisdom not yet acquired

Please do not judge me, cruel and empty box,As I am undecided.

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Land for SandMac Zech

Although the Middle East has long been a volatile zone, it has recently conva-lesced into an absolute powder keg, where ethnic and religious groups are never far from all out warfare with each other. To make matters worse, America’s continued involvement in the Middle East has arguably brought only hardship and ruin to many countries in the Middle East. Many say that our involvement in the region has led to an anti-American outcry. The specifics of the many conf licts we Americans have started would take years to explain, and I’m sure Americans don’t have the time to learn it all. The fact is, many Americans don’t know anything about the Middle East and many Middle Easterners don’t know much about America. Therefore, instead of coming up with solutions that take into account the will of Middle-Easterners, I humbly propose that America start what I like to call a “land for sand” exchange with the entire Middle East in order to facilitate understanding and empathy between our peoples.

The Land for Sand Exchange would be a show of friendship between America and the Middle East, wherein America would literally take its land and trade it to the Middle East for sand. While naysayers would argue that no Arab would care for this exchange, polls show that there is a large demand for forests and mountains in many parts of the Middle East. My acquaintances in Kuwait have informed me that while there is an overabundance of sand and desert in their lands, they sadly lack both tower-ing mountains and fast f lowing rivers. It pains me to no end to see the poor Kuwaitis struggle to get by without a single mountain or large river. Thus, I have already invest-ed millions of dollars in the relocation of the Shenandoah River, moving it from Vir-ginia to right outside Kuwait City. There is no need to worry, however, as I have taken the liberty of fil l ing in the empty land that used to house the Shenandoah with many tons of Kuwait’s finest sand. Now many Virginians can enjoy an Arabian Night just by walking outside their front doors while many Kuwaitis are finally able to practice their newly imported banjos as they enjoy a quiet day down by the river.

While there may be some drawbacks to this plan (for example, hauling Long Is-land across the Atlantic would take a substantial amount of time and effort) the Land for Sand Program would not only educate the Middle East on the ways of the West, but also give Americans a unique opportunity to learn about Middle Eastern culture and history through their shared sand. Just think, if this program is a success then in 20 years there may no longer be an America for the Middle Easterners to hate and there may no longer be a Middle East for Americans to exploit!

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Untitled Digital photograph Andrew Kager

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Emily Burnaman Headline poem

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Launching TimeAllie Ferguson

In bright silenceTongues sucked the earnest dispositionWhile numbers danced and twinkled and laughed whileShe sat and stared and dreamed.

The tassels of a blue scarf pirouette greenAnd he cocked his head and watched his money turn greenAnd somewhere just past the eye and far from the ear and crackling-silence danced.

Dumb-struck is such a funny phrase.Dumbness does not strike, it resurfacesWhen the mind cannot acceptWhat reality is presentingNor numb its presence.

But it does not strike.Blank intellect is not a predatorLack of control over the mind is not an aff liction, noBut a state of beingThat sitsdormant.

Somewhere there is an illustrious artilleryA piqued, shining, sitting, set of weaponryBut they’re not for us.

It smells like burning oil in Travelsburg.It smells like lost mapsAnd newly purchased magnets for the fridge at homeAnd of guileless escape.

Let’s go to Paris like HemmingwayWrite about glittering green absinthe and AgnesWear those New Yorker intellectual God-awful framed glasses.

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Choke on glitter,Just a little,And accidentally, just possibly toss the passport out the loft window to anunsuspecting Vespa rider bellow.

I said turn up the volumeAnd receive some good reviews.It’s the age of Simile, isn’t it?

Putter-pitter-pitty-patWouldn’t you like a girl like that?And snitty-snicker-smitten-smackBetter watch out for boys like that.

Didn’t the teacher teach you?Toads lurk under mud and precious metals alike.

Under-grow and over-reachSit in the car prepare a speechAbout how you’re fit and fitter and bestHow you’re meant to ace their test.Why your face is meant for their campus,Why you’re the biggest the bestest and the fastest.Why they need you and don’t they know your impeccable GPA?Won’t they see you’re just what anyone dreams up to be some day?And no you can’t rhymeAnd you weren’t that impressive on Varsity AnythingAnd well, actually, you’re not entirely sure that you’re the best thing since slicedbreadAnd shouldn’t their cafeteria be constructed of unadulterated gold for this type oftuition?

Big trappersLike to sit stil l under their fur capsUntil they’re invisibleA part of the trees and the dirt and the sunlight -and decaying leaves-Then they shoot the big ones.(Quite frankly:)It has always worked this way.

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I could drink a quart and a half of waterAnd run the MerrittAnd jump to the moon and bring you back cheeseIf I just had the time to stretch.

“Crash!”“Impossible, essentially.”“No rhyme or reason?”“I’d bet on it.”“Common...”“Quite so, Actually.”“Crash!”

“It used to be easier.”Funny how you say so. Because you did it then, didn’t you?And you’ll smile wryly and try to say something self-deprecating to make me feel bigHow insulting.Deferred.

Bigger is better.How caveman-esque.Could we be any more blind?If it were up to me I’d crazeThen require a value check.

Surely, surely ageAnd constants and consciousness and living cultureand consequently identityare abstract?But without a form of measurementArt is without Value.Critics and colloquialism abound.

Fancy words spill fancy ideasLittle left for bureaucracy or oblivion or language of agreementNumbers are un-gilded, after all.

Between sea-levelsThere is pungency

Also neotericNewfangledBeamingInventors.

28Fish Bottle Pastel Sarah Donovan

Page 30-31: Finch Glow, Christian Walsh (digital photograph)

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Keep UsPatrick Quinn

Keep us waiting with the voicesThat sing of deadly dirt,Keep us waiting with the bare onesWho’ve sunk beneath the Earth.

Imprisoned within this lightless pitWe waste away our breath,Forebodingly the air recedesUntil we welcome Death.

But in the haze on Charon’s dockThe weepers see our souls,For they do seek to pull us backUp through their burrowed holes.

My weepers reach to vivifyMy spirit’s blackened core,They lead me back to my remainsAnd thus I am restored.

A scene beheld by my new eyesAwakes long-dormant sense,Forsaken souls reject rebirth,Their lies they do dispense.

The weepers wilt beside the shoreAnd grieve for those they’ve lost,Through murky view they stare possessedAt who’ve o’er river crossed.

Anguish chokes the air like smogAs shrieks of sorrow sound,But I am forced to stalk awayTo reach above the ground.

My weepers pull me through the holeThey dug above my grave;We look above the sepulcher:Only I was saved.

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UntitledCharlotte Seiler

This is my redemption.My legacy.I will be infamous.No one will ever discredit me.I will have the love I seek.Because I demand.They’ll see.They’ll all see. Never forget they will say.Remember the power of words.Anyone,Everyone,Can change the path of some-one’s lifeLike they did for me. I feel cold.Calm.As if this machine in my hand is a ticket.A black key that will open the door,That will set me free. I didn’t deserve this hatred.The scorn, the ridicule.I will find revenge.They’ll see.They’ll all see.

This is my redemption.My legacy.

I will be famous.No one will ever discredit me.

Because I hold the power.I am growing strong.

They’ll see.They’ll all see.

I can break through the stereo-

types.I can find strength

In my words,My education,

My desire to truly live,And let live.

I feel warm.

Clear.As if I have finally discovered my

path.The door is open,

I just need to have the willTo walk through it.

I will find love after all.

Joy,Peace.

They’ll see.They’ll all see.

Then he opened fire on the school.

He got his revenge.

I hope she found peace.

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Daisy Graf fit i Digital photographBen Klein

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Faces at a Wedding Emily Coleman

In the ancient stone buildingThere was a nervous hushUntil the organ startled usKatia walked slowlyHer face concealedMax appeared with a grin at the altarThe somber music f looded the quiet airWhile my eyes drifted over each facePartial light revealingThe contentThe boredThe faces brimming with anticipationThe dancingThe laughingThe tearsAnd the Russians who drankAnd drankAnd drank

Murder on the ShoreEmily Bergmann

How shall I murder him, Iago?It is warm in Cyprus nowThe stars do not dictateThat a sudden cold should fallBut if I woke to a strangeMediterranean snowstorm...Ice is nice. The slim sliver jabbed into the belly of my pet peeveWould leave nothing muchAs I looked out to sea

Man Charcoal drawing Gabi Horowitz

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DoorKnobsCollin Hill

Oh, I forgot to mention

I have stolen all of theDoorknobs from your house

I know you were probablySaving them for e-turnal use

Turning them aboutRound and round

So please forgive meThey were shiny and invitingAnd some doors are just not

Meant to be opened

American HealthcareJim Chadwick

I took all the tongue depressorsStraight out of your glass jar.

Stole your SpongeBob Band-AidsAnd all your cherry f lavored lollipops

I played with the blood pressure cuffAnd tried on your rubber gloves

Forgive me, for I got boredAnd took all the cotton balls, too.

Glass Bottles Charcoal drawingEvan Kenagy

With respect to William Carlos Williams

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Fashion Faux PasLauren Pendo Lanvin f lats, or Chloé boots?Which is more stylish, sophisticated, chic?What outfit will tomorrow bring? And the next?Until the timeline of my life is nothing more than outfits, one after the otherThe different styles blowing through the air of timeChanging its course, coming back again.Cyclical in motion, but empty in meaning.Why do these garments matter? These outfits?They are nothing more than thread, sewn together to create artificial happinessBut at the same time works of art, an expression of selfMinimalism mimicking the modernist mood of PicassoF lowing f lowery vestments of impressionist artistryBut art is enduring, it transcends mortalityClothing is the ephemeral accessory, barred from the afterlife.Decomposing along with the memory of my beingO, if only heaven were a haven for fashionistasThe golden gates opening to the Shoe Salon at SaksThe clouds of blown glass, the pristine white décorThe perfect background for a mecca of style.Jimmy Choo, Manolo, Louboutin all for the takingBut alas, Louboutins line the way to hellTheir red soles the mark of the devil.Enticing, alluring, deceptiveThe signature status shoe, nothing more than a mind ployYet why do I measure the success of my life by the clothes I wear, the outfits I createLife should be measured by my relationships, emotions, achievements, and failures.Not the show-stopping dress that does nothing more than sit in a closetWaiting for its moment that never comes.Am I too scared to wear it? Or am I just convincing myself that the time is not right?But there isn’t enough time.Styles change, and at the end of the day, I’m left with nothing.

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Bellagio Lobby Digital photographChristian Walsh

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Grasp CharcoalAllie Ferguson

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Things Are Exactly as They SeemCollin Hill

Things are exactly as they seem

perhaps only at first glance… …so neither you nor I such insights we presentadding to the abundance of Truth and Factwhat bright Cerebral people we are!knowing Everything that stands before usnot judging, Knowing.its rightful place in our hierarchy--that which we didn’t createdid our forgotten?

White Black YellowGreyTallShortFatSkinnyBeauteousWho decides what fits?What is right and what is not?

These men and women, always on a mission. Never thinking to stop and look around. Quite scary really. Sorrow is something I feel for their monotony. But they don’t. Unless they lose their monotony, that is. They take a deep breath of fresh air, which happens to not be perfectly acclimatized at 72º, something they previously demanded.Refreshing, isn’t it?The façade of the world is astounding.How many false identities can a person possess? In attempt to please their clients, friends, family? conceivably an infinite amount.

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Some are oblivious, most are not.Like two soldiers secretly plotting against the other, but appearing as best friends, brothers even.

A first day at a new school can be scary, but he handled it well. He was smart, witty, and devoted. The characteristics of few. The Massachusetts boarding school had strict rules, dress code, and expectations.

gleaming silverware exquisite lawn and castle style buildingsmade everything feel almost too perfect.

Not to him.The boy paid no attention. He was used to this style of living, and every other style above it as well.His father became very wealthy from his business, which dealt with black gold, he was the one hundred and sixty seventh richest man in the world to be exact, and he always was.

Not wanting to deal with the boy’s hormonal adolescent years,they sent him away.

Of course, he was not aware.They said it was for a better education. He believed them. Oh, the benefits of naïve children

Fragile Unsuspecting, able to manipulate

So immensely surprising that the most fragile of things will shatter.Isn’t it?

Ahmad was the best in his class.Private tutors for the first half of his life, practically since birth that was.For the next seven years private school in his homeland was his father’s decision.

This year, and a new land and a new school.He made few friends, aside from his desk and textbooks.

Besides, without knowledge we are nothing, no?

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He thought so---or perhaps he was taught.The first semester passed. Ahmad was satisfied with his f lawless grade point average. Understandably, the other students were not happy that he made them look like fools. Frustration and anger were two things he very seldom felt. His parents loved him, so he thought, school was easy, and his fourth piano sonata seemed to have been wholeheart-edly renowned by the global community.However, piano was not his forte, so his parents decided he would stop playing seri-ously.Days passed.

A few went into town today. Ahmad did not usually participate, but he wanted to interact with the student body a bit more, so he went. He did not enjoy walking, or any physical activity for that matter. He enjoyed knowl-edge. He enjoyed books.A gust of wind deformed his Imamah. He did his best to fix it without attracting atten-tion to himself or revealing his hair.Ahmad did not mind attention, especially that of strangers. Coupled with his intellec-tual aptitude, he felt comfortable in public, which according to him, seemed not to be the norm of geniuses. He wandered around for a while, stopped, and pondered. Looking through the win-dows of some stores, he wondered why people would ever try to sell pins for a living. He decided not to start a formal debate with himself over this topic.Ahmad noticed a father and daughter walking towards him. They looked happy. The little girl had an ice cream cone in her hand, which she unsurprisingly managed to get all over her face; it made him smile. This simple occurrence almost made it worthwhile for him to have walked here. Then, in the distance, he faintly heard the young child say

“Daddy is with the people who killed mommy in tower?”

Despite hearing it from 40 feet away, the little child screamed it in his ear.

He felt like laughing.

What?Ahmad did not believe what he had just heard.

He melted like wet snow thrown into a roaring fire...his entire essence had just been ripped out of him in an instant. He felt like vomiting, but the very fabric that made him who he was, disappeared. This was no longer his being.Ahmad tried to maintain his composure, for this was only a foolish remark that a little girl had said.

But it was so much more.

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Labeled, grouped, categorized, and shipped 2nd day air to his final destination.Nowhere. He wanted to question something.But he could think of no questions. Only memory of the child’s voice.Killed mommy in the building?Ahmad tried to think of a logical way to rationally approach the situation. Impossible. His negative emotion was one thing he could not study nor master.Two things that previously seemed foreign to him had just risen from the chilling murky depths to become

Oh so clear.

Anger, frustration

Ahmad looked around him, and realized what had been written on his forehead for his whole life.

He was not like the rest. Not like the rest?This question would have seemed irrelevant to him in any other instance.Ahmad thought, Have I been dealt a poor fate?

A genius, son of the one hundred and sixty seventh richest man in the world?

He tried to swallow.Ahmad thought to himself. Difference, while claimed to be so widely accepted, is the most denounced, and unforgiving part of our world.

Why

And so he was presented with the unanswerable question. The unsolvable math prob-lem. An unhearable sound. An undoable challenge. A riddle which bears no solution.

43

And there, in that very moment, he felt that everyone, everywhere, did not care about him. Their sole purpose was to spread the false information that would never hurt them. That would never cause them pain. Just words to them, just words. But words can kill.And they have before.But they don’t know, they didn’t even remember what they just said. An unscathed im-munity. Spreading the tyranny and stereotypes with such ease.

What a surprise that our world gets its facts wrong,What a surprise

Oh, the marvel of whatwhat television can do to facts.Countries can do to factsLeaders can do to factsmedia can do to factsrumors can do to factspeers can do to factsfriends can do to factsparents can do to factswhat we can do to facts

oh, the unintentional mind-blowing brutal honesty of children.

can change people for the rest of their existence.

Power, my child, powerThe center of all conf lict To rewrite the sands of the past The Power to decide what is fact and what is notBut in whose hands does this power rightfully lay?

Yours.

44

Fishing Digital photographBlake Overlander

45

AntsKevin Jahns

Worker ants among the mounds of soilRacing everywhere and nowhere

These creatures think, but do they feel?Their energy wasted, do they care?

A tree of dirt they growPlanted by drudgery, watered in sweat

So they can glance down upon the ants belowAnd think how high they’ve managed to get

To the top they are drawnTrampling comrades beneath their feet

Though each and every one is an expendable pawnNone are willing to accept defeat

But one disgruntled ant escapes the raceThe shackles of the mind no more

He sees the world around him full of graceA whole new planet to explore

He wanders through the tide of greenBlades of grass wet with dew

His budding years are free to blossomPilot of his fate, onward he f lies

46

The Sorrow of the KingSebastian Bates I am Hrothgar,King, shield, and ring-giver among the Danes,son of Halfdane, himself of Beow born,and so to Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes,terror of those beyond the whale-road.I am heir indeed of that mighty prince,who by God’s grace built a realm rich in thrallsand home to thanes, warriors, and hearty womenfolk. So rich that I, Hrothgar,did decide one day to demand the attendanceof all the Danes, so that we might build Heorot-a mead-hall of conquerors; and for that purposeI gathered my most loyal retainers, proud warriors all.and bade them set aside time to build a hall for our gold-gilt throne. Above them all I placed the earl Unferth, son of Ecglaf,scion of a high-born family-sprung from Aethelwulf, of Burgred’s blood,Shield Sheafson’s own swordsman, his liegeman of life and limb, who lived and died with that noble man. Under his watchful eye, it was complete, in but a score of months,and dedicated to the All-Highest Lord that very Sunday, then,took I my throne in that towering hall, and sat among its high gablesthere to dispense my most royal favor upon the Danes. O! our revels were wild, the mead ran freely,joy echoed in that blessed hall. And then- horror of horrors! Travesty! Tragedy!For down from the mountains came that bloody beast, born of Cain-Grim, grimy, gory, God-cursed Grendel,who came galloping from his aerie,descended on Heorot,and wrought destruction and death upon us Danes.

47

We woke, we fought,A score-and-ten of us seeking to drive the beast to the sleep of the sword,but none could slay him, for that foul creature bore the mark of his forefather, Cain,and no blade could work its edge upon his f lesh. He left us, weighted down with bodies,a meal fit for that devil-spawned depravity.And, as the sun rose over the snow, and the stench of the slaughter-dew came to my nose,I saw my kingdom, broken: fit only for crows.

Cast Away CharcoalAllie Ferguson

In repsonse to the Old English epic Beowulf

48

Tibetan Release Nicole Bennett-Fite

The place was at a crossroadsQuite literally you see, It lay at a cross, of roadsAnd down those roads came mengalumphing, naturally, of course.You sat. Watching them galumph.For some time. and were told, unequivocally,this was a processional of sortsbut when, quite naively, You asked what it meant, (this unique roman triumph)you were answered only with silence And a single neon sign, which, blinking rapidly, read simply, “THIS WAY —>”

You crinkled your brows. this waywas unsettling.

But the galumphers continued nonetheless.-galumphing, -galumphing, -galumphinglemming-like.to a place you could not follow

Conflicted, naturally, of courseYou were left with the withered impressionThat wisdom and time are cooperative

But couldn’t shake the feeling that perhapsTruth Discriminates

You wanted more,Though somehow you doubtedThere was anything at all left to wantBesides, naturally, of course, the pursuit of a Tibetan Release.

49

Heat Wave Digital photographPeter Baritz

50

Something White, Something Red, Some-thing Frightened, Something DeadLauren LaBanca

Three people sit on a log next to a stream in total silence as the air around them cools with the falling sun. The man on the left fiddles with his tie and stares at the ground, while the child sandwiched in the middle rocks back and forth ever so slightly. The woman is the first to stand, brushing dirt from her red dress, disturbing the carpet of newly fallen, crunchy leaves on the forest f loor with her stilettos. “Well, someone needs to go get it,” she declares, her tone making it very clear that she is not volunteering herself.

She glances behind the two on the log as the sounds of the party rise over the noise of the stream. The open bar is beginning to take its toll on the minds and bodies of the guests, just through the trees. A squeal of excitement pierces through the clearing fol-lowed by high pitched giggles and what sounds like the collective cheering of the en-tire group. It seems like no one is missing from the wedding. The man’s hands begin to shake, but he makes no other move to volunteer his services.

The woman crouches by the child, grabs him by the chin, and forces him to look up into her eyes. “Sweetie, you know how sometimes in fairy tales, the prince doesn’t al-ways save the princess before the wicked queen kills her?” He hesitates, not quite sure if they’ve ever read a story where there isn’t a happy ending. He nods anyways, afraid of the death grip the woman has on his arms. Satisfied, she continues. “So let’s just pretend this was another story, okay?”

He nods once more, his eyes big as they take in the red stains on his mother’s hands. She releases him and begins to walk downstream picking up the blood-stained shreds of white satin and the torn veil as she goes.

51

Black DiseaseLexi Zargar

From the day we met, you were hard to please, Yet I swore I’d love thee, strange addiction;You distressed my mind like a black disease.

My fondness was acute, deep as dark seas; Though your temper enforced my strict caution.

From the day we met, you were hard to please.

Our brawls were unceasing, made my heart freeze As my pain caused you great satisfaction;

You distressed my mind like a black disease.

My looks, and my theories, made you ill at ease,So I drowned myself in your suggestion.

From the day we met, you were hard to please.

I walk to the river, past the bogs and breeze To fulfil l your desire: my expiration.

You distressed my mind like a black disease.

And finally, at my death, my mind freesItself of your malicious ambition.

From the day we met, you were hard to please.You distressed my mind like a black disease.

52

In the Old Oak Tree and the Red StableTommy Champion

His arms are so little, each dayThe dawn beams bright as it moves on its way

To when the sun drizzles warmThrough its calming golden rays…

Men are laughing, smoking cigarsAs they talk about golf and new sport cars

And he feels your smileAs it kisses him sweetly mild

He shakes off his f luttering butterf lies“It’s okay to be nervous for a little while”

So they ran to that old Oak TreeWith its leaves radiant and yellow bumblebees

So he felt happy and blissfully ignorantShe says, “Please, don’t go home in the dark without me…”

The women sip their pink cocktailsWondering when their Prince Charmings will come to begin their own fairy tales

And the dew dropped onto their cheeksThey giggled and basked in its splendor for weeks

Within their own secret and special meadowThrough their innocent gaze was how they would speak

And they slept in the Red Stable,And chattered about the Youthful fables,

Where he knew he had a friendSo he put his heart on her mahogany table…

The couples get ready to take their dancesWith grown distaste, and all of those uncomfortable stances

So he grew long and thinAnd combed, counted, and caressed the hairs on his chin

But left that Oak Tree and that Red StableAnd his early love; so how does he begin?...

53

The orchestra commences their long decrescendoEerily reminiscent of what was lost long ago

To talk of investments, lawsuits, and Broadway showsOh, the riveting plot line of Anything Goes

And to say “wasn’t that splendid darling?”But he doesn’t have to say it, she already knows…

Complaints while out to dinner about the Johnsons’ ostentatious f lingOh damn, we forgot to feed the dog, why’d you ever buy that thing?

With his socks, shirt, suit, and his drink,Let them all grow merrier as the Night ages so he will perpetually sink

And he will never ever have to rememberThat warm Oak Tree and the Red Stable, only to the Night he shall think…

The man and woman get undressed and trepidaciously fall into bedMagnetically turned away from one another; nothing is said

Ger many Street Digital photograph Maggie Sullivan

54

Richard Harmon’s Alarm ClockBen Klein

Richard Harmon had grown quite accustomed to his alarm clock. Throughout the years, the old SONY brand clock had stuck by him, stayed in his camp even when ev-erything else had fallen apart. TVs had been upgraded, VHS players had been thrown away, DVD players installed, refrigerators moved, couches replaced, but his clock had remained something of a fixture in his ever-changing world.

The summers Richard had spent working at the lumber yard, his clock had woken him up, its shrill tones piercing the early-morning tranquility of the Nebraska suburb where grew up. In these moments, Richard resented his SONY clock, often dreaming of its destruction. In this case, Richard was both the jury and the judge and his verdict for the clock would be severe: “death by hammer-strike.”

Richard’s time working at Best Buy, a “temporary” state which lasted four and half years, started each and every morning with the clock’s incessant ring. His employer, a brutish Armenian man by the name of Zarmayr (Armenian for “amazing man”) resent-ed nearly everything about Richard. However, he could not discredit Richard’s punctu-ality. For this, Richard thanked his SONY.

After quitting his job, moving to New York, and making a name for himself in the cut-throat world of Public Relations Campaigns, things began to change for Richard. Sud-denly, his apartment wasn’t so messy. His bed no longer empty. His head filled with facts and figures instead of daydreams and useless movie quotes. Still, even when his new bed arrived, new tables, new television, new paintings to hang on the wall, Richard desperately clung to his SONY alarm clock that had been in his possession for so many years.

Until, one morning, it ceased to work.

55

Danny Serrano Headline poem

56

Wilhelmshaven, 1926Alex Robertson

I am standing in a seventh-f loor hotel room in Wilhelmshaven, Germany, waiting for a ship. The ship will arrive in seven hours, at 8 o’ clock in the morning, and I am stand-ing to the right side of the bed in the hotel room, staring out through a large window at the sea below. The night has an air of preciseness about it--the sky is a uniformly dark blue without changes in shading or texture and the sea remains unusually stil l . The world is inertial; it is not moving as it should; the night seems to have set everything into a state of complete motionlessness. The vague, penetrating awareness of Wilhelm-shaven’s other citizens and their night-time movements has disappeared completely, replaced by moon- and star-light, placidly casting a f loating beam of white light--amorphous, seemingly tangible--onto the bed behind me. The bed, as viewed through a ref lection in the window, seems to be pierced through with this light, its structure now cloudlike, only a mist of threads and sheets and quilts that come together to convinc-ingly resemble a bed. I start to resolutely believe that, were I to turn around and lay my hand on the surface of the bed, it would pass right through, as it would through a liq-uid. This is the strongest of the feelings and thoughts that this unrelentingly still night

Daisy Black and White Film photographBen Klein

57

has given to me--that my bed is no more than a façade of a bed, and that it would fail any given Bed Test that I could administer, and that it is an artifice in an almost sinis-ter way, given this artificial nature by the thoroughly un-sinister (almost anti-sinister, in its utter calmness) night but then detaching itself from that night, existing in its own distorted plane of non-reality. I do not turn around to test whether or not the bed is real because I, like the bed, am pierced through by the night’s light, which now seems firmly established in the space between my bed and the window. I feel as if my limbs are thoroughly frozen by this light.

In seven hours the ship will arrive, and even before that, probably, the motionlessness of everything that surrounds me will be broken and the world will start again. Perhaps a woman will walk her dog early in the deepness of the morning, and the bed will sud-denly be concrete again, given form by this seemingly meaningless event. A woman will walk her dog, and the bed will solidify, and I will be able to move again. I will be able to turn around and lie on the bed, or go downstairs and talk to the hotel manager and tell him how beautiful the view from my room is, and how much I love being able to see almost all of Wilhelmshaven (he will smile here, feeling a certain alliance with the town and its people; feeling the sort of quaint significance of his role as the affable hotel manager in town) and ask him for a good place to get breakfast before I board my ship. The woman who will walk her dog has not yet arrived. I am waiting for her to do so now; the waiting for the woman and her dog has now superseded the anticipation of the ship’s arrival. I, in my motionless, now nearly somnambulant state, am dependent on this hypothetical woman and her dog--now I need not just any event to break the tense quiescence of the night but I need her, specifically, and her dog, and the two of them walking together in view of my hotel window. I am not entirely sure whether or not, if I saw it arriving in front of my hotel, I would get up and board the ship which I was just a few minutes ago so deeply anticipating. I begin to think that I desperately need implicit permission to start moving from this woman and her dog. I believe that I am wholly locked into place by the woman and her dog--or rather, by their absence--and that if and only if they appear and I can see them and they (both the woman and the dog) are clearly there in front of me, walking together, the white light will finally loosen its grasp of my arms and legs and I will be set free.

I turn around, suddenly and without thinking, absentmindedly breaking the rules of this game which I was subconsciously playing. I know I will be somehow punished for moving. Perhaps the act of playing this game, of not being able to move until an almost certainly illusory goal is reached, is punishment enough. My sudden movement, how-ever, is not a lashing out against the unfairness of such a system or even a conscious action on my part at all, really; I simply move. I turn around and the room suddenly forms itself in front of me. It had slowly disappeared while I was facing the window and it just now reappears before my eyes. The door is covered in shadows. The desk, upon which a note from the hotel cleaner lays, seems sturdier and darker and more om-inous than it was when I had last seen it. The painting over the bed, of a café in Paris at noon, paints itself quickly. The bed, drenched in white light, f loats.

58

SimoneEmily Bergmann

The most beautiful woman he ever sawwas a f light attendant on the way to scenicTulsa, Oklahoma.He’d seen pretty ones beforebut her unknowingly come-hither“please keep your tray-tables in the upright and locked position”was enough to make him sweat.She wore back-seamed stockings,which he saw when she was helpingthe woman in front of himwith her in-f light screeningof an Adam Sandler movie.“Amateur,” he thought. He watched something artisticon the off-chance that she would look at his screenand see his brooding soul.He liked the way her eyes crinkled, genuinelywhen she laughed at bad jokes told byevery passenger.She made a bet with another f light attendantto see if she could keep her high heels onfor the whole f light.She won. As her co-worker shelled out a twenty,her laughter echoed through the planeall the way to first class.He asked her for help with hisoverhead baggagejust to feel his Savior of Coach Seatingclose to him.She had a little lipstick on her teeth.It didn’t matter.“Simone, Five Years of Service”glinted, engraved in her nametag.He thought about the light shining on her facejust so,Simone,while in his upholstered roomat the Hyatt Regency.

59

PatrimonyMelanie Bow

It was hollow now,The halls echoed with voices from the past

And filled with the conversations of long forgotten mattersSpoken by familiar faces that smiled

Then faded into phantoms.

My heart was racing,My hands fidgeted; nervously I adjusted the waistline of my Tahari

dress.It was beige, which washed me out,

And made me feel exposed, empty, and transparent.I was never hard to read but now I lay idle like a manuscript,

With pages spread out on a marble table, waiting to be analyzed,By a group of acclaimed editors,

Eager to find my every f law.

I had forgotten the little thingsThe people waving routinely, like mannequins, every morning,

The countless colossal cups of caffeinated coffee,And the C on a chemistry final.

The vain lyrics of songs I listened to but never liked,The parties I asked to be invited to and the lucky few

With well-finished basements, who, for that momentBecame the ringmasters of the social circus.

And I’d forgotten the tenuous friendships I held on toLike a thin and tattered raft

In small hopes it would somehow save me from the storm.

And now after ages of amnesia,Seeing you, I remember everything.

Still you stand the same,Surveying your surroundings, analyzing who is next to you

What do they look like?Where do they live?

Where do they work?I remember now, why I chose to forget.

With time, my acuity altered,But you remained unchanged.

You are a pawn on a handcrafted oak chessboard,A brick on the vast façade of an inherited house

And a gear in a Cartier watch,Strapped on the spotted wrist of a banker

Who has just missed his train,And his suit is now splattered with mud.

60

Cam Sargent Headline poem

61 Still Life with Orange Cloth flower PastelSarah Donovan

62

Date Night #97Emily Bergmann

I’ve been writing our story on the olive pitsThat I’ve extracted for you

At the fourth best restaurant in the fifth best city,Engraving with an unbent staple

My loving captain’s logs.The fruits of peaceful branches

That I hate, and that you eat like candyPlacing them on your fingertips,

Stripped from their centers.The olives (and their pits),

An appetizer to the poisonous fishThat you also love to eat, testing me,

Holding a knife up to your own throat.You’re a thrill seeker.

I see you on that rollercoaster when you close your eyes,So I blow wind in your face to enforce your fantasies.

But don’t risk too much, don’t let it end yet.I’m clutching your arm at the top of the incline,

And I don’t plan on going down.You may seek thrills but you thrill me, the meeker of the two

When you turn while walking down stairs, searching for my faceWhen your hair blows on the subway platform

When you eat olivesThat I’ve given to you

Minus the pitsWith the etchings

In haikus:

Avoid the poisonFor I cannot imagine

Love, without you here--

I have loved you sinceI realized that you are not

Perfect: mine, instead

63

The RoadAnonymous

I really need to tell youabout getting pulled over by the policefor going too fast on my road to school

even after you told me to drive carefully.

But how important could that be,when your dog has cancer

and your grandpa is in the hospital,with the end of their road approaching fast.

And if you want to see desperation,look into a hospital room,

where an old man wheezes,and look into the eyes of his family around him.

And if you don’t want to see desperation,Well, I’ve been in your shoes.

And I wish I had seen the cop on the side of the road,instead of racing to meet him.

Israeli Fireman Digital photograph Ben Klein

64

Les VaniteuxTommy Champion

Stay silent and sweet, sleeping ladyAs the warmth consumes you whollyWhile I remain idly restless and contentious,My head in hands; God he is pretentious!The Night continues to endureBlack sky over the sea and quiet lawn;Lipless love had come to passHours earlier as the evening climaxed; But Alas!

I’m young and invincible and magnificentFascinating and devastatingly sophisticated!I will be good enough for this room; good enough for themBetter than that; (Where’s the Gin?)And if I halt or falter(Would I? Is perhaps a more appropriate question)I will resume; I will resume Yet…My Reflection - grievous and gaunt - echoed in the mirrorWhat had come to pass? What had I presumed?And what had she thought? And where were her skeletons?She wore them like medals of honor

Shallow men and women walk through the twisted streetsAs the smoke from their cigarettes consumes their facesAnd they wear long pea coats And have long hair like the expressionsOn their tired facesSo exhausted and invincible and once magnificentLike mine, and the one I am looking at -Bitter, boisterous, and awake

Through my stare I have seen all your yearsFull of ‘back thens’ and tiresome days and ways and staysAnd eternal Nights of ephemeral loveWhere you tell yourself it feels like something from above!So stay frozen young ladyAs you slowly melt under the blanketNo need to feel the weight of your worriesYou will be okay, you let them slip away, and there is no hurry

65

So stay there, as your drunken dreams turn malevolentAnd you find yourself the undeniable VillainWithin your own tempestuous torpor You cackle and cough and jeerAnd then freeze;And soon after decidedly meltLike water dripping and fallingOnto the visages of faceless men;Look at your faulty wingsPoorly assembled and tempting fateAnd then cry and pray And weep and weepLet it bleed and drag onLike a limping dog with a lame legLet it drag on! And beyond and beyondYour tardy exposure,Feel something and runAnd climb through the halls of your headStay straight and strongIt will be okay I assumeYet I always presume…But please Madame Realize what you’ve seen

Eventually, I slowly crash into the bedConstricted with loud and encumbering thoughtsAnd I feel I’m falling just like she is falling;Have I only simply been stalling?

66 Ice Layers Digital photograph Ron Holland

AftermathEditorial Staf f

Editor-in-Chief: Emily BergmannThe job of the editor-in-chief is to be the leader of the staff and to oversee all activ-ity in the group. She initiates discussion among the quorum while reviewing pieces, and has the final word on the acceptance status of all submissions. She also encourages the school community to submit their pieces, whether it be on an individual level or at a Town Meeting during the school day. The editor-in-chief, with the editorial staff, also helps with the final order of pieces and appearance of the publication. She meets with the printers of the magazine and helps to determine the specifications. Toward the end of the year, she, with the agreement of the faculty advisor, picks the students best suit-ed to manage the publication the following year, and helps them learn the ropes.

Art Editor and Layout Designer: Paige HartThe art editor is in charge of the entire artistic component of the magazine, in terms of submissions and the aesthetics and layout. She works closely with the Art Depart-ment at St. Luke’s, speaking with art students and faculty, and having pieces archived and photographed. She also works closely with the editor-in-chief, reviewing the works and placing them carefully in the magazine, ensuring that the artistic vision of The Pen-dulum comes to life on the page.

Assistant Editor: Tommy ChampionThe assistant editor is the right hand man of the editor-in-chief during the process of review. He collects pieces to be read at meeting time, encourages people to submit their work, and welcomes newcomers to the group. He also works with the editor-in-chief on making decisions about the final order of the magazine. The assistant editor also con-ducts business when the editor-in-chief is away.

Proofreader: Patrick QuinnThe proofreader closely edits every article of prose and poetry in the magazine and also every text based facet of the magazine. He has impeccable spelling and grammar, which he imparts on everything he edits.

Faculty Advisor: Stephen FlachsbartThe job of the faculty advisor is to generate enthusiasm for creative writing and to establish a sense of what is good literature and what constitutes a good publication. He also helps set a bar for literary and publication quality, and fosters a positive environ-ment with room for constructive criticism. He brings the extra plates back to the cafete-ria and carefully guards the random salt shaker enshrined in his classroom.

Staff

Sebastian BatesNicole Bennett-FiteAmanda BenolielMelanie BowLiza EpprechtAllie FergusonCaroline HopkinsBen KleinChristian LangalisLizzy McLaughlinAlex RobertsonBritt ViergeverLexi ZargarMac Zech

The staff of The Pendulum meets during the lunch period on every third and seventh day of the eight day schedule rotation at St. Luke’s. It is a voluntary club activity. If five or more staff members are present, a quorum is declared, and works that have been submitted are reviewed. Submissions consist of literature (poetry and prose) and art-work in various mediums. They are collected in one of two ways. The author or artist submits it to the editorial staff by giving it to the editor or faculty advisor, in person or electronically. The other way in which works are brought in for review is by English or art teachers. If they hold an in class assignment, they will sometimes pick the ones that they think are worthy of submission and give it to the staff. If reviewed and accepted, the staff will ask permission from the authors before publishing the work. On certain days, the staff will carry out creative writing prompts as well, which are sometimes re-viewed for the publication.

The editorial staff (the editor-in-chief, the art editor, the assistant editor, and the fac-ulty advisor) will meet on certain occasions, more frequently towards the end of the school year, to collect all accepted submissions and to put together the final publica-tion.

The fonts used in this volume of The Pendulum are Linux Libertine (for headers), Imper-ator (for titles), and Baskerville (for the body).

Linux Libertine was designed by the Libertine Open Fonts Project, and is best known as the font in the Wikipedia logo. It is a proportional serif typeface with inspiration drawn from nineteenth century book type. Linux Libertine was released in September of 2003.

Imperator is a serif font designed by Paul Lloyd.

Baskerville, a transitional serif typeface, was designed by John Baskerville in 1757. It is usually classified as being a transitionary typeface between the older styles of Caslon and the more modern styles of Bodoni and Didot. Baskerville is marked from other sim-ilar fonts by its distinctive tail on the uppercase Q.

The 2012 edition of The Pendulum was printed with a Kodak NexPress 2500 Digital Pro-duction Color Press, at Impression Point Printing by Robert LaBanca. It uses Enhanced Dry Ink which produces a consistently high image quality, providing vibrant colors, consistent spot color matching, smooth f lat field and gradients, and the unique ability to match the ink gloss level to the substrate being printed. The paper used is Galerie Art XP, #80 silk cover and text. It is FSC-certified and contains 10% PCW.

FAQsThe Staff of The PendulumWhat if I fell into an alternate dimension and forgot to pack my toothbrush? I’m a narcissist and don’t believe in helping others – is there a self-indulgence day com-ing up soon? Is there an end of the world potato? Who is Meg and why do I always dream about her? Why can’t I pluck out my eyeballs and throw them to see things far away? What is this green ooze coming out of my body and how do I stop it? What if you forget your name and no one will tell you what it is? What if my religious views prevent me from doing math? How do I if can’t remember what or where the beginnings of the sentences in the barn-yard that I start? What if I got an invisible tattoo? Is this really about love and how it never works out?

Where is the FAQ section?