P a r a g o n

i

This is the fifth edition of the Coe-Brown literary and visual arts magazine. A lot of hard work and time has

been invested in this year’s edition. We hope that our growing efficiency and skill is apparent to our readers.

New this year is a color cover. A special thank you goes to everyone who helped us raise funds for the cover and

to the school for its continuing support of our publication. We hope that everyone enjoys the vibrant cover as

much as we do.

We received fewer literary submissions this year than in previous years; however, we received a dramatic

increase in the visual submissions. All entries were worthy of our serious consideration. Thank you to everyone

who submitted entries. We look forward to receiving equally unique and intriguing submissions in years to come.

This year’s edition of Paragon is a culmination of five years of experience and learning. We hope that you

appreciate the skills that we have gained as well as the unique identity our magazine is developing. This issue is

dedicated to Reneé LaBerge and Ian Reed, classmates who passed away this year. As always, we hope that you

enjoy this year’s edition of Paragon.

volume V

The Paragon Staff

spring 2001

Celynne Guilmette

Columbia Scholastic Press AwardsGold Medalist, 1997Silver Medalist, 1998Silver Medalist, 1999Bronze Medalist, 2000

National Council of Teachers of EnglishSuperior Rating, 1998Superior Rating, 1999Superior Rating, 2000

A Student Publication of Coe-Brown Northwood Academy907 First New Hampshire TurnpikeNorthwood, New Hampshire 03261

Printed by Town & Country Reprographics, Inc.Concord, New Hampshire

ii

Colophon

The text and titles of Paragon are set in Bauer Bodoni, chosenfor “its dramatic difference in thick and thin letter strokes, severe verticalstress, and extremely fine, delicate serifs and hairlines.” (Adobe TypeLibrary) The font was originally cut for the Bauer typefoundry in 1926,based on an eighteenth century design by Giambattista Bodoni. The titlesof literary works were designed using PageMaker tools.

Text was originally word processed in Microsoft Word and ClarisWorks,and imported into Adobe PageMaker 6.0. Images were scanned usingAdobe PhotoShop LE 3.0.4 on a Macintosh,using a Hewlett-Packardscanner.

Postscript files were then taken to Town & Country Reprographics Inc.on a Zip disk ready for printing.

Policy

iii

As an ongoing effort to improve the CBNA Literary/Visual Arts Magazine, the magazine staff maintains thefollowing selection policy. All submissions are made anonymous before the readings by assigning each selectiona number and covering the author’s name. This process has eliminated any bias and allowed each piece to bejudged on its own merit.

In addition, all visuals are scanned and then printed out anonymously on a random “thumbnail” layout withall entries the same size. Each is numbered. This process enables the staff to view all submissions simulta-neously, to judge each piece on its own merits, and to locate those that would work best in the magazine.

The staff reads all entries and classifies them as either a piece that definitely would enhance the magazine, ornot suitable for the magazine. After all the submissions are read and scored, the staff holds a “cut” meeting inwhich the merits of each piece is discussed. Each piece is considered on its own merits as well as how it mightfit into the magazine.

It has previously been noted that good writers are also interested in editing the magazine. This is not a matterof chance. In order to prevent these students from dominating the magazine and to vary the styles in themagazine, the staff continues to use a 3 piece limit for all authors/artists submitting an unlimited number ofentries. This allows the largest number of people to be published in the fairest manner possible.

Criteria for Readings and Viewings of Submissions:Literary:Quality of contentImaginative use of languageAppropriateness of metaphor, imagery, and symbolChoice of vivid, clear, precise wordsVariety, rhythm, flow of language, and diction

Visual:Innovative and/or creative contentTechnical skill used in rendering, painting, or sculpting (as would apply to the particular medium used)Quality that will be best translated to black/white reproductions used within the publication

Web Site: Issues, both past and present, appear on the CBNA Web Site (www.coebrownacademy.com). What

We Came For (1999) and Paragon (2000) are currently posted. This issue will be added soon.

Explanationof

The 2000-2001 Paragon Staff

EditorsJessie Caron, Editor in ChiefMichelle Wilson, Art EditorJennifer Heath, Literary Editor

OfficersLauren Erickson, SecretaryJonna Tower, Treasurer

StaffNaomi AndersonSarah AndersonChristopher BoucherEvan FreemanKelly M. HillsgroveJessica KentLee MoriartyKate PhetteplaceSophia SavageMichael SheehanRachel Thibodeau

AdvisorsElizabeth D’AmicoAnna Hazen

A special thank you to our faculty and staff readers:Debbie Collins, Rita Dana, Jennifer Deardorff, Jeanne Goulet, Ray Mason, and Kathy Palmer.

iv

Death sets a Thing significantThe Eye had hurried byExcept a perished CreatureEntreat us tenderly

To ponder little WorkmanshipsIn Crayon, or in Wool,With “This was last Her fingers did” -Industrious until-

The Thimble weighed too heavy -The stitches stopped - themselves -And then ‘twas put among the DustUpon the Closet shelves -

A Book I have - a friend gave -Whose Pencil - here and there -Had notched the place that pleased Him -At Rest - His fingers are -

Now - when I read - I read not -For interrupting Tears -Obliterate the EtchingsToo Costly for Repairs.

c. 1862

Emily Dickenson

v

In memory of

Reneé M. LaBerge ‘03(January 1985 - December 2000)

andIan A. Reed ‘02

(November 1983 - September 2000)

Contents

vi

ParagonLiterary

1

2

3

4

6

7

8

9

10

12

14

15

16

18

19

20

21

22

24

25

26

27

28

Sonyalynn Irving ’01

Lee Moriarty ’01

Danielle Mann ’01

Ryan Fisher ’03

Sean Rainey ’01

Meagan Corlin ’02

Charles Mowen ’01

Jessie Kitz ’01

Evan Freeman ’02

Sarah Anderson ’02

Lee Moriarty ’01

Kelley Rowe ’01

Jonna Tower ’01

Jennifer Heath ’02

Sophie Savage ’02

Jonna Tower ’01

Jennifer Heath ’02

Jennifer Heath ’02

Heather O’Neal ’01

Sophia Savage ’02

Heather O’Neal ’01

Kevin Foster ’02

Jonna Tower ’01

Today’s Playground

Space Travel

One

The Pen Awakens

Untitled

Beauty and the Ignorant Beast

The Sphinx

Bargains of the Spanish Gypsy

What Worries Me

Why Do They Hate Me

Amor Vincit Omnia

Faded Flower

Remembrance

Sisters

Footprints of Mine

In Heart and in Mind

Rain on My Nose

Mimi’s House

Morning Sun

Kind Of

For You My Child

Ode to a History Essay

And So We Dance On

Contents

vii

ParagonVisual

WatercolorCeramics

Photograph

Photograph

Photograph

Drawing

Photograph

Drawing

Relief Print

Watercolor

Photograph

Drawing

Drawing

Photograph

Photograph

Photograph

Photograph

Photograph

Photograph

Photograph

Photograph

Watercolor

Photograph

Collage

Photograph

COVERi

1

2

3

5

6

8

9

10&11

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

24

25

26

27

28

Sophia Savage ’02Celynne Guilmette ’01

Kayla Tasker ’03

Evan Freeman ’02

Danielle Krause ’01

Rachel Thibodeau ’01

Billy Serverino ’03

Seth Dyer ’01

Richard Blackburn ’02

Evan Freeman ’02

Holly Gooch ’02

Holly Gooch ’02

Rachel Thibodeau ’01

Kerry Murphy ’01

Jessie Kitz ’01

Holly Gooch ’02

Amber Tonkin ’04

Janet Kramas ’01

Joshua Cushing ’01

Holly Gooch ’02

Kristen Church ’03

Lee Moriarty ’01

Hannah Leavitt ’03

Joshua Cushing ’01

Janet Kramas ’01

Kayla TaskerPlaying in the Leaves

viii

1

When dreams of tomorrow vanishSo too do the hopes of todayWith every today that perishesTomorrow is still in the waySo push tomorrow asideCome with me and hideAway from the world and we’ll play

Play

T o d a y’ s

ground

Kayla Tasker

Sonyalynn Irving

2

Space Travel

I stare at the hypnotic moonSurrounded by stellar dreamsAs I float by on satin sheetsThat unwrap you to the sun.

Embraced by the ray’s warm tendernessAnd entranced with his glowing gaze

I feel the tears start swelling up,To know that this will be kept away

With the winds that flow over the sands of the ancient dunesInto a vast and swirling part of you that you always hide

A place that’s dim and barren, and where these thoughts will dieAnd as the stars start falling from the heavens above,

I’m left all alone with only shattered dreams scattered around meSo I pick up the pieces, one by one

And join them with a safety pinNow I stare at the hypnotic moon

Surrounded by stellar dreams pinned together with careAs I walk on glittering stardust

That leads me away from the sun.

Evan FreemanQuiet Dawn

Lee Moriarty

3

Upon the gentle stones I trodAnd listen with all my heart,To hear the echo, faint, from GodThe key to play my part.

The trill of birds so lightly winged,Their babes just hatchlings, stillBrought wonder ever so lightly tingedBy pain, against my will.

The stones below my feet are coldAnd smooth by gentle waves.All ray of warmth and light will foldBeneath a starry maze.

Soft breezes through the trees foretellOf winter storms to come.Sharp flames that flicker always quellThe small things that succumb.

Still paths that wind to places knownThat take a soul awayWhere all life is a written poemLeft open for One to weigh.

1One

Danielle KrauseQuiet Day on the Farm

Danielle Mann

4

earning me wealth, success, andcritical acclaim. Throughout my professionalwriting career, the marvelous penhad never failed me. I hadn’texperienced writer’s block oncesince I received it, a steady streamof characters, plots and dialoguealways ready in my mind. Mygrammar has since been impec-cable, my editor commenting on itwith every release. That pen hadbeen an irreplaceable ally andpartner for two decades, until just ashort time ago this very evening. I was sitting down to start a newmanuscript. Kicking around theplot for the last few years, tweakingit in my mind, I had finally decidedit was worth my time. I sat downat my writing desk with a glass ofginger ale and a bag of Doritos,making sure my pen had a fullcartridge of ink. I had begun tosketch out the plot and characters,when my handwriting becameforced and erratic, as though someunseen force was dictating mymovements. With a startled oath, Ireleased the pen and leapt awayfrom the desk choking on a mouth-ful of Doritos, and to my enduringamazement and horror, the penitself remained erect and continuedto write. My stomach clenched infear and my body broke out in achilling sweat. I rubbed my eyes asthough to rid them of the unrealsight and stood rigid in shock. Thiscan’t be real, I thought forcefully. Iwrite about this crap, it’s not real! The pen’s fine tip ceased itsscratching across the page, whichhad frighteningly reminded me ofscurrying vermin, but remainedupright. Drawn by morbid curios-ity rather than any true will at allto see what its scrawling, easyscript (not unlike my own) had tosay, I stepped slightly closer, rising

he following pages were foundhidden behind a loose wall

panel in the house of the nowdeceased fiction writer Jake Tor-rance. They were found by Mr.Torrance’s son soon after he died.Whether the following material isan actual, legitimate journal of Mr.Torrance’s last moments of reality,or the last joke of a notoriouslyeccentric writer, is for you todecide. It lay there motionless, itspolished silver surface gleamingwith a malevolent luster. Itsdormant state mocked my recentknowledge of its activeness butmoments before. For all the years Ihad owned the pen, I had cherishedit and kept impeccable care of it, asit had been a gift from my belovedand deceased wife. I kept its silvercasing always to a bright shine, andI replaced its ink cartridges count-less times over the last twentyyears. My wife had given it to me as awedding gift, and to show myappreciation for the fine pen, I hadhand written the first chapter of mynext book using it. When writingwith this pen, my imagination wastapped fully, my creativity pouringonto the page. No other writingmedium before had infused mewith such inspiration and allowedme to put my thoughts into sucharticulate reality. I ended upwriting the entire novel with thepen, replacing the ink when neededand reverently polishing it everynight when I finished. I was anincredibly superstitious person, andbegan to view the pen as the key tomy abilities as an author. Whenthe book shot up the bestseller listin less than two weeks, I knew Ihad found something special in thepen. Every novel I have writtensince I have done so with that samepen, and every one has been a hit,

AwakensT h e P e nT

With a startledoath, I releasedthe pen and leaptaway from thedesk...to my en-during amazementand horror, thepen itself remainederect and contin-ued to write.

5

high on my toes for a better view. Written beneath my outline wasone solitary sentence. It was short,but expressed a depth of meaningand hardly a shred of ambiguity. It’s time for my share of the glory,Jake. My jaw dropped farther. Wasthis possessed writing implementactually communicating directlywith me? My mind was reeling.

My pen wanted glory? Whatpossible use could a pen have forwealth? “W--what do you mean?” Istammered. “Why would a penwant to be famous?” Is that what you think I am,Jake? Mocked the pen. I’m you,you idiot. Another side of you, longhidden in your subconscious mind.Where do you think all those ideascame from, Jake? You? Ha!They’re my ideas, Jake. “That’s insane! Those are myideas! I made up those stories!” Iprotested, though my voice soundedmore as though I was trying to

reassure myself of their truth thanargue with the pen. Wrong, Jake, they’re mine. Whydo you think you were only suc-cessful with this very pen, Jake?It’s a focal point. Through this, Iwas released from deep inside yourhead. First, I was little more thanyour creativity, a depth of imagina-tion through which you drew your

ideas. But over the years, as youbegan to idolize the pen, praising itfor your success, I grew sentient, Icame into my own awareness. Andnow, Jake, I’m tired of taking theback seat while you control thingsand get all the credit. It’s time formy day in the sun. This, whatyou’re seeing before you, isn’t evenhappening. It’s merely a mentaldelusion symbolizing the split inyour psyche, the prelude to theupcoming battle over the control ofus, Jake. I’ll be back shortly, Jake,be ready, because it ends soon.The pen fell lifeless once again,clattering from the notepad on the

desk and down to the floor. Istumbled away from my study,searching for an escape from themadness within. I bolted up thestairs and headed toward thebathroom. On a sudden unexplain-able impulse, I snatched this verynotebook and pad from the tray-table in the hall and locked myselfin the bathroom. I then began towrite this piece, perhaps the finalmoments of my life, or my sanity. Iintend to hide it behind the panelwhere you, reader, have no doubtfound it. If all this insanity is infact true, and my unknown alterego does indeed exist, I hope he isnot aware of my current actions,and it is not he that now reads thismanuscript. To the reader of this manuscript:If you have found this behind thethird to the bottom panel in theback of this bathroom, then theexistence of my alter ego is certain,and the man now known as JakeTorrance is not me! He is animposter, and has somehowusurped my life. . . Mr. Torrance’s handwriting isillegible from here on. There is anadditional half-page of script,though Mr. Torrance’s naturallypoor handwriting and possible lossof sanity have rendered the remain-ing text indecipherable. The fact is,however, that Mr. Torrance diedscarcely three days after the date atwhich this piece was noted by Mr.Torrance. The cause of death wasassumed to be natural, though thelast expression on his pallid facewas reported to have been one ofanguish, and in his clenched fistthey found a twisted and marredwriting pen, identified by his son tohave once been a cherished giftfrom his beloved wife.

Ryan Fisher

Rachel ThibodeauUntitled

6

The waters were so calm and cool,A sight I could only dream of.The sky so bright,Not a soul aroundHere, in the middle of a lake sitting in a boatWatching the fish jump.

I can feel the warm air of summer,As I dive into the crisp, warm water.

Billy SeverinoEarly Morning Mirror

Sean Rainey

7

There she is...They lookAnd laughAnd pointAnd assumeHow dare they?She is beautiful becauseShe is confidentRadiantIntelligentThey see her crownSparkling and the bannerThey see her face and her figureDo they ever look at her?IndependentIntellectualInspirationalDeepBeauty is as beauty doesSpeaking out to stop injusticeSpreading a messageMotivating to actionA platform, a toolPower to make aDifference

But still they look at her and laughSee her as shallowScoff at her sincerityHow dare they?Ignorant societyThe beast thatBashes beautyBrings her down, degrades,And yet she emergesSo high aboveSurpassing jealousy and ignoranceAnd continues to smile, wave, change the worldWhat do you see?Beauty perhaps, but so much moreStop!Give her a chance to change your mindProve you wrongBy succeedingIn the incepting worldAnd having the strength to stand with pride, amidst the criticsWaves her wave and smiles her all-knowing smileLaughing in the dark faceOf the ignorant beastKnowing that she won

Beauty and the IgnorantBeast

Meagan Corlin

8

S p h i n xAncient creature from untold centuries,Child of the sun, god of men.What art thou? Lion or man?Why are you here? What is your purpose?

Ancient creature of mystery and wisdom,Tell me your stories, for they must be numerous.Oh, the things you must have seen,Your eyes are centuries old.

Ancient creature, your secrets have been forgotten,But your legend is still strong.Guardian of Egypt,Keeper of the wisdom.

S p h i n xThe S p h i n x

African Herbsman Seth Dyer

Charles Mowen

9

Richard Blackburn

Jazz

hola señor y señoritahola¿a ti te gusta?what did she say?she asked if you like that tablecloth she is holding, dadoh yes! síocho mil pesetaswhat did she. . .she said that it costs eight thousand pesetashow much is that?forty two dollarshow do you say no?nono.no, ¿por que? mucho trabajo mano, manowhat did...she said, why not? she worked hard on itbueno, señor, cinco mil pesetaswhat did she say?she said, five thousand pesetas, that’s about thirty dollarsno thank you. . .I mean no graciaspor favor señor, mucho trabajo, es muy ancho y largoshe said that it is very wide and longtell her I don’t want itseñora, no tenemos una mesa en casawhat did you tell her?I said we don’t have a tableoh, nice save

Bargains of the

Spanish Gypsy

Jessie Kitz

what worries meis the lack of guiltI’m feelingI’m a little bit scaredat my comfortwith the wrongI’m kind of disturbedby my familiarity with evilI’m contentwith the dark thingsI’ve doneI’ve become numbto sinit’s like I’ve been shot upwith novocainwithinI want my soulto feel torturedbut it is notI desire that piercing painI used to know so wellbut it doesn’t comeand that is what scares methat iswhat worries me

Evan Freeman

The Nature of Man; Nature of Me

10

What Worries Me

Evan Freeman

11

12

Why do they hate me?I ask myself this.Happy,I lived and worked.I prayed.Then they kidnap my husband.Sending me his ashes and our wedding ring.In a cigar box.Then, they came for my daughter.She screams the cries of the innocent,She cries the tears of the children.Then, when no one was left, they came for me.Crammed in, I fit on the train any way I could.I sat on the cold planks of wood,Only light came through the slats of the walls,Some died early,They did not know of the long, sullen ride that they escaped.We arrived at a ghetto,“Look to the Sky”A rain of ashes fluttered to the ground, “Those are your children!”We ate meager rations thatWeren’t fit for the dogs they hunt us down with.Festering bodies litter the ground.Barely recognizable as human.Sickly, with faces, pale and withdrawn.At last, THEY know eternal peace.But I will not let them see me weep.And let them know they have won.But for now, alone, cold and ready,I weep, tears of relief.I will soon know peace.Tomorrow at dawn,My bunk will rise and be rounded up,In that field.The field where children, fleeing, met with buried bombs.The field that masks mass graves.The field where I will dig my grave.They kill us as though we are only evidence to dispose of.Why do they hate me so?

WhyDo theyHateMe

Sarah Anderson

13

Holly GoochBarn Door

14

From up out of the depths of this darknessFlowed in such a mighty, glistening light.

Melting away my coat of emptiness,Exposing my soul and giving me sight.

This warmth I felt embrace and entrance me,So tender a touch never felt before.

That reached deep inside to set my heart free,This warmth that I felt gave me wings to soar.

To fly away from my desolation,And into your warm, loving arms at last.

Amazed by the bliss of the rising sun,Watching my sadness sink into the past.

Through our lives, good or bad, we must recall,We are not alone, and love conquers all.

A m o r V i n c i t O m n i a

Holly GoochDreaming of You

Lee Moriarty

15

O, frost covered rose,your withering stem,no longer grows.

Sweet autumn’s breeze,makes your once lush buds,flutter and freeze.

Your season; fled,death has fallen,upon your callow head

Rachel Thibodeau

Kelley Rowe

FFFFFF

Fad

ed F

lower

16

He reclines on a new burgundy love seatMisleading by nameShe curls in its other cornerToo nervous to unfoldShe steals a glance at him—A new haircut, a funny-looking goateeA flashy red shirt, too flamboyantFor his apathetic façadeHis neck, unusually bareStripped of necklaces repossessedShe looks away, she’s seen enoughToo long, detected

remembranceR E M E M B R A N C E

The movement captures himHe turns despite his passive restraintSees her red-highlighted, black hair drawn backTwo locks hanging in her faceThe skin—pale, glitteringEnchanting himHer lips smile, eyes uncertainHer tiny hands grasp the silver keyReplaced around her neckIts shine, rubbed awayShe continues to pressImprinting its painful ridgesForever in her hand—He knows it wellCreated for her heartNever to be touched again

Kerry MurphyChocolate Lover

17

He watches her, she laughsUnbrokenHer eyes behold nothingKnowing everything insideHis stomach burnsYearning, longingTo touch her facePlacing his hands on her headHe pats her gentlyShe smiles instinctivelyCold shudders on her spineHe withdraws his awkward handToo distant

Pretense smiles and coveted thoughtsSand castle promisesPaper-mache dreamsWelcome to the real worldTake back your dreamsPromise only to yourselfHer body loosensShe is strongerHis body tightensHe remembersShe runs her hands through his hairCompelling reflexHe closes his eyesTheir thoughts are togetherThis one last nightTheir trembling eyes meetAs questioning hands touchToo closeThen withdrawnAs it shouldn’t beOnly friends

In a room, too familiarThat comforts themBy slapping them in the face—He remembersShe tries to forgetAs they both try to forgiveAnd there they remain—TogetherOn a love seatMisleading by name

Jessie KitzA Girl’s Best Friend

Jonna Tower

18

Right from the starteven though I was so youngI knew-how precious you were-what a treasure was to be foundin you.We grew together,holding hands-sharing treats.But as the years went by -think-I forgot.The precious gift and treasurethat was my little sister.And now when I-reflectingsee, just how innocent you are,I reach out to hold your hand, andneverlet it go.

Si

r

e

sst

Holly GoochLetting Go

Jennifer Heath

19

They may not remain in my lifetimeNor travel the memory of yours

But they will rest in the ocean of timeAnd travel the beauty of life’s eternity

They may not appear perfect in my lifetimeNor encompass admiration in eyes

But they will keep my life’s legendAnd encompass the truth life is made of

They may not claim praise in my lifetimeNor jibe the life you choose

But they will remain mineAnd surround my conscience with gratification

They may not stay on the sea’s breathless shoresNor make an imprint in your mind

But they will glorify my destinyAnd make an imprint in the fate I alone shall determine

They may not be more than my toes entangled in the sea’s sandsNor succeed to tell my truths to you

But they will remain mine and mine aloneAnd succeed through the waves of time untouched

UnafraidUnrelenting

And unobstructed from the footprints that may have trampled mine

Footprintsof Mine

Amber TonkinRelaxation Drive

Sophia Savage

20

In Heartandin Mind

Like wind-blown patches of snowI slowly drift beneath the skyAnd falter not knowing where to goOr which lonely path I should tryOne is awakened and expandingThe other patient and enchanting

My mind cares not which I chooseAs apathy is her motherBut my heart cowers, afraid to loseThe unknown success of the otherSo I remain unable to advanceTo let my mind give my heart the chance

Yet, when the night from the day is tornAnd the moon begins its climb to the skyMy reason and sentiment commence to mournFor neither resolution could onward lieWith adversity in heart and mindThere yields no compromise to find

Janet KramasOld Men Sitting

Jonna Tower

21

N

Raindrops fallingsteadilydrowning worldly noise.Steaming on the pavement,creating rainbows ina darkening sky.Soft baby skinfeels its pelting,assailing his tiny nose.Plopping on his head,settlingon silken curls.Eyes open wide,and mouth upturneda tiny tongue pokes outcatching raindropsonebyone.

Nose

R

Rain

onMy

Joshua CushingKids on a Rock

Jennifer Heath

22

used to imagine that the wallsof my grandmother’s house hadeyes - that they had been standingthere for years, watching thepassing of time and collecting itsstories. Those stories that they held,as secrets were always my fascina-tion. I wondered to myself what thepeople who lived in that house hadlooked like, what tragedies and joystheir lives had seen. I waltzedthrough the large entrance hallimagining the ladies in elegantVictorian dresses sweeping inthrough the once solid front door.The front closet was my delight as Isearched through brown paper bagsfor a hat and mittens and wonderedwhy anyone would put a window ina closet. As I wound up the scuffedand worn stairs my small fingerscaressed the soft banister andwondered how many small bottomshad slid gleefully down it before Ihad. And just before I reached thetop landing I would spin and lookwith upturned eyes at the twopictures high on the wall above thestaircase. One of them was of Jesus;the other was a portrait of mygrandmother as a small child. Iwould stand and stare at the childwhose blond hair resembled myown and search for some resem-blance of the woman I knew as“Mimi”. At the top of the stairs there werenot just hallways and bedrooms -but my very own playground filledwith nooks and crannies to explore.I would push away the built-in gateat the top of the stairs, quiet

enough to hear it rub against thefloor. My first childhood haunt thatI entered was what I referred to as“my room”. No matter how manyother cousins or siblings challengedmy ownership, I stubbornly refusedto give up what I saw as my title as

the oldest grandchild to that smallroom. Contained in it were toysthat I treasured - and was not thefirst to do so. The Chrissy doll thatwas once my mom’s was one of myfavorites. After all, you didn’t seeany modern dolls, who at the pushof a belly button grew long hair! Other things - such as what thecloset held, soon took my attention.Dress up clothes galore could befound heaped in baskets in thecloset. What had been discarded bygrownups as “not fit to be worn”became what I proclaimed to be themost beautiful clothes I had everseen. Consisting mostly of mygrandmother’s frilly, yet discardedpajamas and robes, the dress up

I

Holly Gooch

Mimi’sH o u s e

23

clothes transformed me fromkindergarten to high society in aonly the few moments that it tookmy clumsy hands to pull on theoversized garments. I vividlyremember a bright orange pantsuitmade out of filmy fabric. The neckline hung down around my waistand it required a belt to keep itfrom sagging on the ground, butthe cuffed ankles created quite thepoofed out, pumpkin look. That,coupled with a fake fur coat andadorned in gaudy beads almostcompleted the outfit. Except for theshoes- which of course were highheeled and double the size of myfeet. Those unwanted, misfit clotheskept me occupied for hours. And when I was finished, therewere always more adventures touncover. In the hallway was a chinup bar. One that my uncle hadinstalled in an attempt to transformhimself from scrawny boy to toughmarine. While I originally dependedon a taller, stronger relative, or forthat matter any stranger who couldgive me a boost, I quickly learnedthat by placing a foot on either sideof the door jamb I could shimmymy way up the wall and grab on tothe bar unassisted. Unfortunately,not being very strong, it wasn’t verylong before I ended up right backwhere I had started. Besides, youcan only make an attempt at chin-ups for so long! Tip-toeing my way to the end ofthe dark hallway, I would crouchdown on all fours with my nose tothe floor. From this position I couldsee through the slotted gratedirectly into the kitchen below.Although I tried to contain mygiggles so as not to be discovered,itwas not long before my grand-mother would look up with aknowing eye. Now it is my little brother andcousins who peer down throughthat grate, and I sometimes findmyself as the one looking up with aknowing glance. Although it hasbeen years since I have slid

down the banister or hid in acrowded closet, those walls stillecho my childish giggles and haveadded to it the voices of theyounger grandkids. While at times Iforget the simple treasure and joysthat those walls contained - thewalls do not. They stand there justthe same adding the stories of mychildhood to the other stories theyhave collected over the years.

Jennifer Heath

24

Tomorrow is aDream awayAnd today isAlmost dawn

Hold your daysIn the now

For today may notLast until theMorning sun

Tomorrow is aDream awayAnd today isAlmost dusk

Don’t blow awayThe morning sunWhile wishing onA star

The dreams youThink will comeWill leave youIn an empty wake

BecauseTomorrow is aDream awayAnd today isAlmost dusk

M o r n i n g

M o r n i n g MorningSunM

o r

n i

n g

M o

r n

i n g

M o r n i n

gM

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M o r n i n gHeather O’Neal

Kristen ChurchUntitled

25

kind of crazyhow girl is girland is neverwho she is

kind of crazyhow beauty is beautyand never doeswhat it should

kind of crazyhow breath is breathand never breathesfor itself

kind of crazyhow life is lifeand never lives for the moment

kind of crazyhow face is face and never smilesits own smile

kind of crazyhow everyone wants to bethe person of the world

kind of perfectif girl were girland always wasunafraid to be

kind of perfectif beauty were beautyand always wasoriginal as sin

kind of perfectif breath were breathand always breathedevery dream for itself

kind of perfectif face were faceand always smiledat its own world

kind of perfectif everyone wanted to bethe person of their soul

kind of perfectif everyone weren’t afraidto be crazyto be realif every facewere real

Kind Of

Lee Moriarty

Sophia Savage

Glistening Curiosity

26

Be careful where you go, my childBe careful whom you see.

Though you’re a beautiful girl now, my childYou could one day look like me.

You’ll think you need Prince Charming, childTo come and rescue you.

But I have Prince Charming, childThere’ll be no rescuer for you.

You’ll find yourself alone, my childThe way that I was too.

You’ll think you need someone to mend you, childBut the only true cure is within you.

For

You

My Child

Hannah Leavitt

Heather O’Neal

Untitled

27

No clear thesis.no thesisthesis?

There’s no focus here.Adequate but at times unfocused.specifically, what does this address?cite

So?Where are you taking this?SO?

1 sentence is not a paragraphThe answer is clearly inadequate.There is no depth or details.there’s little coherency in the pieceyou’re throwing facts on a page but there’s nocoherencyyour paper offers facts in the hope that coherencywill form.the work does not meet minimum standards. Thework is disappointing.It is inadequate in depth as well as breadth and doesnot address the question

Finally, follow MLA format more closely.

Your grade is a D.

Joshua CushingField Day

Kevin Foster

to

ae

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History

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Clandestine Hollywood raysShine down upon usIn our rented tuxedoes and satin gownsEver changing colorsModels to our movementsAs we dance in blues and greensOthers in rhythm to orange and redIntermingled smiles in the crowdUnity and camaraderie infiltrate the airA sense of finality in creationLachrymose faces become the unstableInspiring terms of remembranceWhile those of tenacityGlisten from thoughts of commencementAnd so we dance on-To reminisceTo contemplateTo advance

AndSo

W e

D a n ce On

Janet KramasDowntown Reflections

Jonna Tower