The Walrus 2014, Vol. 48 Saint Mary’s Hall, San Antonio ... · Sydney Watt Poem Lost Sole 27 Juan Lopera Poem Reflections on a Mirror 28 Jenna Thomas Digital Photograph Vanity 28-29

The Walrus 1

The GreatPerhaps

The Walrus 2014, Vol. 48 Saint Mary’s Hall, San Antonio, Texas

On his deathbed, François Rabelais said, “I have noth-ing, I owe a great deal, and the rest I leave to the poor. I go to seek a Great Perhaps.” With this exclamation he captures the idea of boundless possi-bilities. The human condition is a paradox. Our physical selves live in the present, but our minds wander through time, as if lost. However, the true paradox of humanity is our love to reminisce about the past and think to the future with the purpose of determining who we are in the present. The Great Perhaps is not dwelling on what will happen or has occurred, but becoming so immersed in the present that the future and the past are non-entities. Only when “what could have been?” and “what will come?” no longer impact “who am I now?” can one achieve pos-sibility. This magazine acts as a means to guide your mind out of the past and back from the future. We invite you to use these works as tools to achieve a mental state in the present: the great perhaps.

Cover Art bt Emily Styslinger (10), “Identity,” Collage and Watercolor

2 The Great Perhaps The Walrus 3

Emily Styslinger Collage and Watercolor Identity Cover Katrina Arthur Digital Photograph Endless Paths 4-5Trina Navarro Poem Heartstrings 6Julia Medellin Digital Photograph Reconstructed 7 Margaret Amberson Sculpture The Poser 8Connor Cione Essay A Mutual Need 8-9Sam Turner Digital Photograph Nothing Is True, Everything Is Permitted 10Bailey Roos Poem A Friend of Death 10Jacob Miller Monologue For the Life of Me, & the Death of Him 11Case Potter Digital Photograph Inferno 12Trina Navarro Poem She Started the Fire 12 Sydney Watt Poem Firefly’s Lament 13Julia Medellin Digital Photograph The Eye of Sleep 14Trina Navarro Essay A Trajectory of the Mind 15Jasmine Liu-Zarzuela Essay Face Painting 16Jaclyn Vance Digital Photograph My Lips 17Seis Steves Haiku The Mirror 17Sydney Watt Poem Insurrection of the Bobby Pins 18 Basie Minus Mixed-Media Rooster vs. Red Gucci Suit 19Tristan Robinson Poem A Timeless Elegance 19Sallie Rochelle Pencil Search 20Ashley Drengler Essay Not a Carbon Copy 20-21Trey Maurer Digital Photograph Dancing Over Oxford 22Leiah Mendiondo Essay Outmatched 22-23Ethan Ausburn Watercolor and Ink Best Friends 24Tristan Robinson Poem Gym Rat Love 24Hans Uy Parody Hamlet’s Golfing Woes 25Sabrina Rodriguez Poem Tied Up 26Gaby Caliendo Digital Photograph Unlaced 26Bennett Word Ink and Colage Crepe Soul 27 Sydney Watt Poem Lost Sole 27Juan Lopera Poem Reflections on a Mirror 28Jenna Thomas Digital Photograph Vanity 28-29Kristin McCamy Colored Pencil Don’t Look Down 30Jen Soules Essay Labyrinth of the Mind 30-31Sam Gonzalez Digital Photograph Past the Breakers 32Juan Lopera Short Story Coward’s Mind 32-33Juan Lopera Poem Alone, Together 34Hamlet Newsom Watercolor Taciturn 35Gloria Yanez Poem Tumultuous Paradise 35Jen Soules Poem Apathy 36Basie Minus Ink Reality vs. Fantasy 36Lauren Bynum Monoprint Plummeting to Sleep 37Carson Kessler Prose Poem The Infatuation with Sleep 37Katharine Clement Oil Waiting for Fall 38Katharine Clement Essay Camouflaged 38-39Alexia Salingaros Screenplay A Girl With a View 40-41Emma Reford Essay The Principal’s Kid 42-43Juliana Fagan Oil Pastel Buried 43Inma Escalante Spanish Poem with translation La música es como un idioma 44

Trina Navarro Poem When Music Plays the Muse 44Maddie Kellum Mixed-Media Songbird 45Aristos Brandt Essay Savoring Tiropitakia with Papu 46 Marcela Madero Digital Photograph Grandpa 47 Gloria Yanez Poem “Yours Truly” Replaced 47Blair Robinson Watercolor He Lives in You 48-49

Fiona Mohamed, French Sonnet with translation Les Aventures des Animaux 49 and Monica Trigoso

Ariana Zamora Digital Photograph Be Aware 50-51Gloria Yanez Essay Admiring Shadows in the Streets of Mexico City 50-51Adam Berman Essay The Pomegranate Tree 52-23Coates Roberts Acrylic A Beetle and His Dung 54Carson Kessler Mixed Media Shrewtastic 54Gabby Feuillet Watercolor Dionysus 54

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Submission Policy:The Walrus welcomes submissions from any member of the Upper School student body from August through February. All work is judged anonymously, so we ask that all submissions arrive without a name on the piece and with the required submission form. Submission forms may be obtained from the student publication room in 3704, Mrs. Amy Williams-Eddy or a literary magazine staff member. Digital submissions are perfered and sent [email protected]. Please ask Mrs. Williams-Eddy about the digital require-ments for all photographs and artwork. The Walrus staff works during lunch, after school, and every Sunday after spring break to complete the magazine.

Editoral Policy:The Walrus editorial staff reserves the right to edit minor errors such as gramatical and spelling problems, while other submissions may be returned to the author for other requested corrections.

“A Few of My Favorite Things,” Watercolor, Hamlet Newsom (12) “It’s Organic,” Watercolor, Ashton Muniz (12)

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As a person, one explores the in-ner workings of his mind in order to glean a minute understanding of the human condition. As artists, we must understand not only our own minds but the minds of others and develop interconnections between ours and theirs. To be a citizen of the world, he must be citizen of himself, and recognize that his ef-forts to become who he wants to be ultimately contributes to the person that he was destined to be.

“Was I the same when I got up this morning? I al-most think I can remem-ber feeling a little different. But if I am not the same, the next question is “Who in the world am I?” Ah, that’s the great puzzle!”

- Lewis Carroll


There’s the stringit’s tethered to each of usstretchingsplitting with every interactionIt may swell, redress, and thicken as wella web covering the entire globeloopingtwistingwe are all entangleda lacework of unity

But, it may fray, break, and wither away

There’s the stringit’s tethered to each of usstretchingsplitting

Don’t let go

Heartstrings

“Reconstructed,” Digital Photgraph, Julia Medellin (11)

Poem, Trina Navarro (12)


“The Poser,” Sculpture, Margaret Amberson (10)

A Mutual NeedEssay, Connor Cione (11)

For better or for worse, I have ad-opted society’s typical idea of a teen-ager’s relationship towards his family. Resistant not only towards my parent’s authority, but also to their supposedly sound advice, I’ve continued to sepa-rate myself from them in an immature drive towards independence. My sister, Elaina, however, remains polar to the trend. As the barrier separating my par-ents from me grew larger, my connec-tion with my sister grew stronger. Our first meeting remains a vivid memory, one which I can easily recall at any time. Under the careful guidance of uncles and aunts, I held my newest sibling in my arms. The world stood still, and I held my breath as I stared into her dark blue eyes. I felt a well of emotion, an upwelling of love and a consuming

need to protect and shepherd this tiny bundle of cloth I cradled in my arms. Over the ensuing months, I would im-patiently wait for my mom to pick me up from kindergarten, and race into our home when we finally arrived, hell-bent on spending every possible second with Elaina. I spent hours describing every little detail of my day, however trivial, to her. When we were given a project of “show-and-tell” and were told to pick something interesting and important from our lives, I could form only one idea: Elaina would be brought whether she wanted to go or not. As Elaina and I grew up and ma-tured, so did our relationship. No lon-ger do I race home to detail my life out to her, nor would I choose her as my “show-and-tell” today, but, when faced with questions I don’t have the answer

to, or when suffocating under countless stresses, she is the one I turn to for help. Elaina is the witness to my breaks in resolve, and she is the one that helps me mend them. So, I was at a loss when she in turn needed me. I was a sheltered middle-class indi-vidual, never struggling to understand a family member’s pains nor understand-ing what it meant to be powerless to aid a loved one. My parents’ protection had been all encompassing, and whether due to chance or isolation, I’d never walked through the stark white walls of a hospital nor desperately listened to a clinician’s prognosis. When I first stared into my sister’s unseeing eyes and watched as violent convulsions racked her body, I was forced out of the defenses built around me and made re-sponsible for the well-being of another.

On a warm sun-lit Sunday afternoon, with my strength faltering, my tenacity wavering, I experienced a fear I could do nothing to abate. Diligently study-ing, my first clue that something was amiss was my mom’s question towards Elaina, asking her what was wrong. Something falls; I hear an audible gasp and a yell for my dad. I run out of my room to see my mother cradling my sister’s bleeding head, a small body of blood pooling around her feet. I say her name over and over again, confused as to why she won’t respond to me. She starts to shake, her body’s movements erratic and uncontrolled, my mother’s arms desperately trying to contrain Elaina’s fitful movements. My mom yells for me to get an ambulance. I’m waiting and waiting for someone to an-swer as my father easily picks my sis-ter’s limp body and runs to our eleva-tor. As he runs past, all I can look at are my sister’s amaurotic eyes, the pupils rolled back, and her face an emotion-less blank mask. Unsure and afraid, I’m left alone in my apartment with only my fears to keep me company. I’m alone until the next day, know-ing nothing of what has happened; upon my father’s return I demand we immediately go back to the hospital. My sister’s room is private and unre-markable, undistinguishable from each other numbered cell, all occupied by a needy patient, all dealt with in a clini-cal and detached manner. After a bar-rage of explanations, mostly educated guesses, I pay little attention to the sur-geons and specialists who in vain try to explain the intricacies and causes of Grand Mal seizures; instead, all I focus on is my sister’s response. The doc-tors and nurses remark about her sheer valor, putting up such little fuss; they don’t see the truth. I know my sister; her fear and apprehension after a bar-rage of blood tests and intrusive medi-cal examines is plain and obvious to me. I slowly begin to realize that for the first time it is my responsibility to be the comforter, to look her in the eye and promise her that everything will go back to normal. Surrounded by medi-cal equipment and constantly probed by dispassionate staff members, I once again feel a palatable need to safeguard Elaina. My sister became the one who

needed me; home alone with her, it was my responsibility to ensure her safety. I took numerous classes with my fam-ily and alone, studying and preparing all I could for procedures and plans on how to aid an individual who is hav-ing a seizure. When my parents left on vacations, it was their expectation that I would ensure she took her count-less medications. When she cried and yelled and refused to take the seeming-ly endless accumulation of pills, I was the one who sat with her patiently un-til she finally came around. What was not expected, however, and remains unknown, is the countless instances in which I’ve tried in vain to convince Elaina that epilepsy is not a curse but a unique attribute she alone gets to carry. As months passed and word spread of my sister’s condition, I began to lis-ten to her describe stories of kids point-ing her out and ostracizing her from groups and cliques. The empty smiles and hollow greetings became waves that slowly wore down Elaina’s stony resolve. The years of my detailing my troubles to her were over; my ter-rifying mountains became gentle hills when she came to me for help, and I in turn realized how insubstantial my worries really were. Yet, though her stories were occasionally accompanied by tears of pity or unanswerable ques-tions of “why me,” Elaina presented a strength I myself never knew she had. Though our roles had become reversed, and she needed me now more than ever, it was remembering her daily strength that allowed me in turn to overcome obstacles in my own life. I have never been a confident per-son, any self-belief I now hold is a consequence of innumerable “bap-tisms-by-fire” experiences, all of them as disappointing as the last, in which I was removed from my everyday at-mosphere and thrust into an entirely new environment. My countless moves and nomadic lifestyle throughout my schooling culminated in an obstacle I believed to be insurmountable. My anger quickly turned into consterna-tion and fear at the prospect of once again restarting my life and abandon-ing all I had grown to love, this time as a junior in high school. Throughout all the panic and hurried packing brought about by the unexpected, my sister nev-

er once faltered. As each one of us in turn wavered and forgot about Elaina’s weighty burdens, she continued to re-main resolute. As I relentlessly lashed out at my parents for what I saw as a selfish decision and daily spiraled ever deeper into a dark place of my own creation Elaina remained a concrete ex-ample of fortitude and strength. When I finally gazed upon my now foreign home for the last time, she was the one who made me compartmentalize and ultimately abandon the need to feel sorry for myself. It was her example I took with me into San Antonio, bury-ing my fears and apprehensions under her resolve. I was recently reminded of how far Elaina and I have come. Her last ma-jor seizure months ago, my family and I had all slipped into a naïve sense of peace, as if a cease-fire existed with her condition. Our armistice was short lived, for we were quickly reminded, while celebrating Elaina’s 11th birth-day at Main Event, of the dangers our lax-posture could hold. While guiding her through the hordes of youth that seem to swamp every square inch of the amusement park, I lose grip of my sister’s hand. Spotting my sister stand-ing next to a flashy game I think she’s finally chosen something to do; it’s not until I turn her around to see her mouth agape and her eyes unfocused and unseeing that I known something is wrong. Surrounded by egotistical children and their adult entourages, I desperately search a sea of faces in vain for help. The multitudes all focused on their own predicaments, ignorant and uncaring of my own, swarm Elaina, nudging and pushing her body like a sinking ship churned back and forth by an angry sea. I swoop her into my arms as the convulsions begin. Indi-viduals begin to distance themselves, apprehensive of this teenager doing the unexpected, the unknown, and fearful of themselves becoming involved. Her hand has a vice-like grip on my own, its pressure is not a cry for a help but a reassurance to me that everything will be alright. An eternity later she returns, flustered and embarrassed by the ques-tioning stares around her. She looks to me and smiles. I squeeze her hand, each of us letting the other know every-thing was fine.


The tormented beauty in your eyes Dwells somewhere between the hidden emotions

And the ones just visible enough to liberate the truth. Memories painted in pain lash at your heartstrings,

Numbing the body ever so slightly. And yet, the timepiece in your chest has yet to abandon its melodious “tick, tick, tick,”

Reminding you that life is still trapped beneath your cracking lips.

Your movements become arduous, yet automatedEach step sends biting aches through overused muscles.Unwillingly your brain recalls the forced steps you took;

Leaving a parcel of your dignity imprinted in the dirt. No longer are you a prisoner to a man,

But a prisoner of the mind.Like a pocket watch, your face is concealed by a metallic façade.

Oh, Death! You yearn so pathetically to meet him! What a treasure it must be to finally seize him,

Embracing your impending perpetuity like an old friend. How cool his grasp must feel against your sweltering body,

dexterous hands manipulating the slowing clock, bringing the ticking beat to an end.

A Friend of DeathPoem, Bailey Roos (10)

“Nothing Is True, Everything Is Permitted,” Digital Photograph, Sam Turner (10)

For the Life of Me,

Monologue, Jacob Miller (11)

“Prisoner 2450 would like a rack of ribs, a hamburger with pickles and pepper jack

cheese, and a root beer float.”

When people ask about what I do, I am not really sure how to tell them. To some I am a chef: people tell me what they want and I make it for them. Easy. I have requests that are all over the place. On Monday morning, I re-ceived an order for two grilled cheese and a peach pie, while on Tuesday an-other order arrived for two pounds of lobster, fries, and the drink that must accompany all unhealthy meals, a Diet Coke. I have a pretty good location. The locals never really come to eat more than once, even though I make them exactly what they want. But hey, I am not complaining. The vast majority of the people who I cook for say that my food is to die for. Some of them would kill to get one of my meals. Many of them have. Despite the lack of returning cus-tomers, my job does have some perks. For example, when my costumers are asked if they were to die tomorrow what would they like to eat? Many of them say that they want my food. Not that there are many options available. If you have not at least guessed by now at all the terrible puns, I cook for

the people on death row. It is not the most optimistic job. I wake up in the morning, get to work, and put my heart and soul into cook-ing what ever the “soon to be dead” inmate wants to eat. Naturally this ranges from prisoner to prisoner, each choosing that one meal that is closest to their heart. Some choose to order food reminiscent of their childhood, just last week someone asked for a bowl of just the Lucky Charms marshmallows because his brother used to eat all of them out of the box, so as a final act, he, the pris-oner with an expiration date, would now get to experience the joy of the colorful pieces of sugar compared to the cardboard shapes of his youth. Sometimes, in fact, most of the time, I am not able to talk to the inmate, left to guess who they are based on their food. Many times the prison guard who gives me the order does not even tell me a name, just a dish and a number. “Prisoner 2450 would like a rack of ribs, a hamburger with pickles and pepper jack cheese, and a root beer float.” The guards never say the key

words “before they die.” It is hard because I want to cook the best meal that I can, after all, I am a chef it is what I do, but then at the same time I realize whom I am cook-ing for. Not specifically, of course, but I know that someone on death row probably did not steal candy from a baby. So why in the world would I ever want do a favor for a candy steal-ing baby killer; especially, if my fa-vor is to cook this person’s last meal, one of their last wishes on this earth. When I went to culinary school, I tried to cook as well as I could, but I did not anticipate cooking the best meals for the absolute scum on the bottom of the barrel of humanity. But who am I to take away any last ounce of joy from someone who is about to die. Maybe it is not their fault, it is possible that these prisoners are just people who were born into a situation destined to fail. It is not my job to make these moral judgments. I am a chef who makes the food that people kill for. And if you will excuse me, I need to complete making the last ounce of joy that a prisoner will ever recieve before his death.

& the Death of Him


She lights her words on fire and the smoke is carried by the wind

she shoves a time limit to her lips to force some meaning, some mark

Ashes travel in a breathcatching fire to touch

she can flick the butt and keep the flame

It burns on her tongueit blackens her lung

But she lights againthe fire outside begins within

She Started the Fire

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I flit and flirt in the midsummer duskYou charm my flightas I swerve, drunk on your imageinto the open bottle

Shut tightyou have secured my affectionI brighten for only youI glide in circles as you observeMy world is the world you have chosen

I grow weary of this jara miniature cosmos of glass and airI am reducedfrom a once-brilliant fireto a single cinder

The lid’s lacerated holes have replaced my starsWings whipStifled, feebleGlow dimsNo salvation from this vessel of lost devotion

I was once the aurorailluminating your nightNow as you untwist the capI become my own beacon

Firefly’s LamentPoem, Sydney Watt (12)

Poem, Trina Navarro (12)

“Inferno,” Digital Photograph, Case Potter (12)


A Trajectory of the Mind

I have never been able to sleep well. When I was younger, I used to sit in my crib and tell bed time stories to my circle of stuffed animals, keeping my parents awake and concerned. My mother thought she could soothe me to sleep with a cup of tea or cocoa, but this just inspired me more. I used to imagine a love story where the marshmallow was in love with the hot cocoa, but to be with the hot cocoa the marshmallow had to melt away, and fi-nally become a ghostly swirl in a pool of unforgiving liquid. My problem has never been staying asleep, rather it is falling asleep. As everyone else is asleep, my thoughts are too extensive, too distracting, taking me over the edge, eventually throwing me off a building. By the time I was in a traditional bed, my parents gave up trying, and I learned to keep my thoughts to myself. I would just lie on my back on my blush pink bed, staring blankly out the window, until an airplane flew by. The white light accompanied by a flashing red light waved past me as I followed it with the movement of my eyes. I liked watching the plane fly across my window, knowing that it was taking a collection of people to a different place. People are on the ground all the time, restricted by grav-ity, but this contraption has given us the ability to go to a place so faraway, in time, in distance. What once was a piece of metal, can now fly above me, above my house, above the world. I wonder if everyone on that plane feels special. When I first flew, I did not under-stand how the people below could just continue on with their day when I was experiencing something so mystifying.

I looked out the window, expecting to see someone looking up at me smiling or hear someone whisper, “Wow!” as fly 600 mph without moving from my cross-legged posi-tion. For the longest time, the only person I knew who flew on plane was my mother’s grandmother. I used to think she was the little old lady who lived in a shoe all the way in Pennsylvania, so I was amazed a plane could take her to California in just five hours. She only came to visit me maybe twice in my lifetime, but I could tell she was close to my mom. They used to stay up late eating English muffins in the kitchen and I could tell they were talking about something profound. I could not hear them from where I peaked behind the corner, but I could see my mother’s eyebrows furrowing, leaving an elev-en between her eyes. Soon enough my great-grandmother would say something to make the eleven disap-pear and my mom would run her fingers through her hair that seemed to grow at night. I used to imagine a family of jungle friends who lived in her hair, making a nest out of the long, curly strands, and when I thought of her face, I imagined the little mole on her cheek as a starfish on an old war ship, with so many stories of salty waves splashing on it, but my great-grandmother knew how to stop the tears. I just knew she would have been the type of sweet grandma to make everyone happy. She would be the type of grandma to spoil me, making me feel like I was finally the favorite grandchild. I don’t have many memories of my great-grandmother, but I thought

of her every time an airplane flew by. In my bed, I familiarized myself with her face, remembering how her blue eyes seemed so bright in contrast to her ivory appearance. I thought about how she might have looked in the airplane flying over me. Even after my great-grandmother passed away, I still thought of her when I saw an airplane at night, the beacon of light giving me a distinct sense of comfort. It has been years since my great-grandmother passed away, but I still see her on occasion. At night, I do not look for her within the airplanes, because, when I finally fall asleep, I sometimes see her in my dreams. She looks the same as when I thought of her on the plane, with her soft white hair untouched and her pale skin only brightening at the apples of her cheeks. Sometimes my dreams were so profound that when I woke up, I felt small. I used to imagine myself as an ant, hanging on to the string of a kite, flailing in the freedom of the wind, while someone below was try-ing to control me, trying to pull me down back to Earth. I cannot quite remember if she ever talked to me in my dreams, but I remember her eyes. Her baby blues rested on my face, making me feel special when I finally woke up. But I did not have time for that. No, I had to start my day, go to school, listen in class, follow the rules. Only when I’m back in my bed, at the end of the day, can I be myself in my thoughts. It was never the airplane that took me places, I just liked to think it did. My great-grandmother was only in my thoughts, but that is what made feel special this whole time--my imagination.

Essay, Trina Navarro (12)

“People are on the ground all the time, restricted by gravity, but this contraption has given us the ability to go to a place so faraway, in time, in distance.”

“The Eye of Sleep,” Digital Photograph, Julia Medellin (11)


Face PaintingEssay, Jasmine Liu-Zarzuela (11)

As I shift my eyes in every direction, I notice a commonality in the women around me. Ranging from fourteen to sixty, these women possess a charac-teristic that sets them apart from men, for their eyelids are of different colors, eyelashes of a darker and thicker ap-pearance, cheeks of a slight pink color, and lips of a glossy texture. All of these facial enhancing methods are the result of one popular item among women: makeup. In modern society, we often want to be considered ‘normal,’ meaning that we strive to be like those around us, influenced to do certain things by our family and friends. Since becoming a teen, I have been influenced to wear makeup by friends and family. Even in middle school, many of my friends have used makeup daily; therefore, I began using it to fit in, a rite of passage. Along with my friends, my mother has also influenced me to wear makeup. As a little girl, I noticed how my mother would spend time in the mornings ap-plying makeup before she went off to work. Fascinated by the multi-colored powders, diverse selection of pencils, and different sized brushes she used, I compared her to an artist. Observ-ing herself in her bathroom mirror, she drew every mark on her face with pre-cision and concentration, as if she was crafting a piece of art. I asked her why this process was necessary, and she told me I would understand later in life. As I have matured, I discovered the reasons as to why I, along with my mother and many other women, use makeup. I often wonder why the predilection to wear makeup is typically a feminine one. No definite reason lies behind this association, but it seems women don-ning themselves in makeup is univer-sally accepted in most cultures. The various reasons as to why women use makeup is comprised of the following: to please themselves, to please others, and most notably, to strive for perfec-tion, which in reality is unattainable. Physical appearance lies high on many woman’s list of priorities, for they are often too preoccupied in covering their

physical flaws, and this preoccupation often becomes an obsession. Although makeup can be used for beneficial pur-poses, it is a confining mask that gives women a false sense of confidence, for it is a tool used not only to hide physi-cal flaws, but also to avoid accepting them. Ironically, makeup can create a neg-ative first impression, for women are frequently judged as being superficial when wearing too much makeup. It is a known fact that we judge others on appearance before personality because we see strangers before talking to them. In my experience, I always judge a per-son based on appearance first; how-ever, my judgments are often modified once I get to know a person’s character. This past summer, I attended a medical camp in North Carolina, and I became good friends with a girl named Kelly. Upon meeting her, the first thing I no-ticed was the extreme amount of make-up on her face. Although her makeup was striking and accentuated her facial features, she looked intimidating, and I felt a sense of arrogance in her pres-ence. I was scared to introduce myself, but when I did, she replied enthusiasti-cally with a smile across her face. As I got to know her better throughout the week, rather than over-confident, her personality was humble, honest, and very kind, and the friendship we both created is one I will never forget. Her bold physical appearance forced me to believe in something that was not real, and her makeup disguised her genuine personality. Furthermore, the display of makeup on a woman may inadvertently exacer-bate vanity. Visual beauty is interesting and intriguing to the human eye, for the creativity of makeup provokes others to concentrate on one’s physical appear-ance. Women often compliment each other’s physical appearance; however, perpetual flattery can lead to vanity. I have a friend who wears makeup daily, and she uses vibrant colors to express a playful creativity. Receiving many compliments from other girls, she can sometimes give off the impression of

being narcissistic. As one of her good friends, I know she does not intend to appear vain, but these compliments of-ten inflate her ego and her vanity inhib-its her true personality from unmasking itself. Fostering a woman’s confidence, makeup is commonly used to make a woman appear younger or older, de-pending on her age. As a sixteen-year-old, I often feel the need to look older when I go to particular public events such as elegant dinners or special per-formances. Several people have asked me if I am a college student, which makes me very proud since I worked hard at perfecting my makeup to achieve this very goal. As young wom-en aspire to appear older, women over forty usually aspire to do the opposite. My mom, who is approaching fifty, uses cosmetics to lessen the appearance of aging, and quite a few people have told her she looks as if she is in her early thirties. She expresses the same sense of pride I possess when I receive comments about appearing older. My mother and I enhance our confidence through makeup; unfortunately, it is a false pride because once we remove the powder and pencil markings, we scorn our more natural look, believ-ing that our natural beauty is not good enough. Women are so used to seeing themselves with makeup that when they wear none, their self-perception is warped, and they lose the false confi-dence makeup gives them. As a part of the female population, we have lost our authenticity by being too focused on artificiality. Some go as far as plastic surgery, which perma-nently changes natural beauty by ‘cor-recting’ attributes that are believed to be imperfections. What would society be like if the ability to correct physi-cal flaws did not exist, if makeup and plastic surgery were never invented? Instead of striving to please society’s high expectations with looks, women should focus more on the true impor-tance of a successful life: developing their character and embracing their personality.

The mirror glares backRevealing every blemish

This is how I am

The MirrorHaiku, Seis Steves (11)

“My Lips,” Digital Photograph, Jaclyn Vance (12)


Their rich mahogany tones glint Under the bathroom’s harsh light

Lined up carefully, a battalion of hair accessories

Yet pin by pin they disappearPlaying a perpetual game of aliases As they nestle deep within the gritty

No-man’s-land of the drawerHidden betwixt the cracks of blush canisters

Disguised by misplaced rosy talc

Nail clippers pinch and tweezers biteWhile melting faces of uncapped lipsticks

Smear and anoint these rebelsLiberty beckoning with each mutation

Freshly transfused with glitter and dirtThey have taken on new identities

Proud to have lost their lusterNo longer polished pins in

Perfect containers

Insurrection of the Bobby Pins

Poem, Sydney Watt (12)

The moustache listens quietly under his noseSlowly and slowly, the strip of hair grows

Defining the person as a weathered gentlemanGrowing this is a challenge, not every man can

A moustache serves as a goal for all menWith it comes a sense of wisdom, a timeless elegance

Great men in our history have sported this featureThe moustache sits on their face, watching like a creature

Einstein, Whitman, Twain, and TribekIt stands out like an albatross hanging around one’s neck

Like a wolf that stalks the moon till night fades awayThe moustache sees all, even when it’s turned grey

The supremacy of the moustache may be overwhelmingBut it’s the difference of manhood, a prince to a king

A Timeless Elegance

“Roo

ster

vs.

Red

Guc

ci S

uit,”

Mix

ed M

edia

, Bas

ie M

inus

(12)

Poem, Tristan Robinson (12)

“Pla

ying

a p

erpe

tual

gam

e of

alia

ses

as t

hey

nest

le d

eep

with

in th

e gr

itty

no-m

an’s-

land

”


Not a Carbon Copy

“Everyone wants to be recognized as special or important, standing out for her unique characteristics, applying an image to her name,

so why not a twin?”

When I apply for college in just two years along with thousands of other young individuals, I hope to have de-veloped myself into a mature and unique individual, one that surprises and amazes the college administrators as they read my application, thinking to themselves, “I would really like to meet this girl.” Yet, as I struggle to discover my purpose in life and who I truly am, I encounter a barrier time and time again: people basing their opinion about me because of the knowledge they have about someone else—my twin brother Matthew. I have been as-sociated with my brother numerous times, whether it be based on school interests or personal taste and opinions, their judgment based solely on what they know of my twin. I find myself needing to work harder than most to let my personality truly shine through, to become “Ashley Drengler,” not just one of the “Drengler twins.”

During this journey, I learned that it has been scientifically proven that fra-ternal twins have nothing more in com-mon with each other than any other sib-lings, no matter how many years apart. The fact remains that twins simply were fertilized at the same time; thus, they are born at the same time, with no altered gene that connects them in some special way. Furthermore, while identi-cal twins may share the same features, this similarity does not make them the same person; on the contrary, it creates a yearning to individualize themselves and develop their personalities sepa-rately. People everywhere try to create meaning in life, searching for the pur-pose of their existence or simply trying to understand themselves and formu-late their own personality and individu-ality. Everyone wants to be recognized as special or important, standing out for her unique characteristics, applying an image to her name, so why not a twin?

People often harbor the misconception that twins are a package deal, yet while they may share certain similarities, they are just as different as anyone else. While both my brother and I pride ourselves in doing our best in the same activities, such as our main extracur-ricular activity of swimming, within the similarity we could not be further apart. I am a breast stroker, recently earning my first sectionals time. Dur-ing practice, I focus on my technique, especially my breast stroke kick, the strong aspect of my stroke, while at the same time laughing and gossiping nonstop with my friends between sets. Matthew is a long distance freestyler, being able to swim the mile (66 laps) without slowing his pace. Even more amazing is that he does it without kick-ing! Although his technique might not be considered the best, his stroke is so fast that he doesn’t need to worry about the technical aspects or kicking, his

worst nightmare; he just needs to work hard, racing his friends whenever the opportunity arises. Yet, when people are informed that both my brother and I swim, they jump to conclusions. They ask us who the faster swimmer is, push-ing us to compare with one another, and classify us as the twins who swim, without taking the time to truly under-stand the complexity of the sport—one with different strokes, distances, and goals. In reality, within the activity, there are many different ways to stand apart from not only one’s brother, but from one’s teammates as well. No swimmer is exactly like another, just like no human being is an exact carbon copy of another, no matter when they were born. Matthew’s and my personali-ties, lying on opposite sides of the spectrum, further add to the differences between us, dem-onstrating my distinctiveness in even the most basic charac-teristics. I often go out of my way to introduce myself to oth-ers and become acquaintances with anyone in my path, form-ing a large network of friends. People have regularly told me that I cannot stop talking, and hearing me burst out laughing in the most in-appropriate time would not be unusual. I make an effort to cheer people up, brightening up their day if I notice they are struggling or depressed. Matthew too aims at defining himself uniquely. He is calm and reserved around el-ders, seen as a well-mannered young man around unfamiliar faces, but once one observes him among his tight knit group of friends, he transforms into my goofy joking brother whom I know so well. Sometimes when people come up to me after meeting my brother, before I even open my mouth they have already labeled me by who they think I would be; however, later on they comment about how I “was nothing like they ex-pected,” being surprised by the fact that I am Matthew’s polar opposite. Although I love my brother dearly, when I go about my day, I ensure that I am seen uniquely. My mind wanders

to the future, imagining a life that I cre-ate myself, through the interests I will pursue. I aim to attend a university to the west, where the climate is warmer and I can enjoy my days studying out-side. While my Matthew’s eyes are set to the east coast—where he will spend his free time inside enjoying his vid-eogames while connected to friends—I look forward to taking strolls with friends, sightseeing and relaxing in the sun. I have been informed that some-times colleges take into account ap-plications sent by twins together rather than separately. My college counselor told me that often colleges do not want to split up twins, thinking it would be an advantage to keep them together. This notion troubles me because if one

of the twins does not meet up to the standards, we both might not get in. When college administrators also take part in this characterizing of human in-dividuals making college an all or noth-ing deal, it makes me question all the efforts I have made to set myself apart from the rest. Within my own group of friends, I define myself as the one who is always outgoing and hyper as long as it doesn’t impede my school work. I steer clear from the majority, taking different courses, such as AP Computer Science, a course rarely taken by girls, in order to truly individualize myself not just from my brother but from ev-eryone. While it is possible for twins to have the same style, taste, and habits, the fact remains that these similari-ties originate from the excessive time spent with each other, more time than most siblings. I concede that both my brother and I have the same study hab-

its and we both don’t particularly care for fashion or brands. We have lived together our whole lives, and up un-til I was twelve years old, I had never been apart from my brother for more than twenty- four hours. This close re-lationship may strengthen a bond and may cause similar quirks, yet these small resemblances never overpower the more obvious differences present. Just because we can sometimes glance at each other and automatically know we are thinking the same thing, a smile slowly spreading across our faces as we prepare to take action, by no means does this signify we can actually com-municate our intentions telepathically or think the same things; it is simply a byproduct of the excessive time spent

with each other. We have gotten better at reading each other’s moods and tones, and frequently we end up using the same gestures and facial expressions, a trait sometimes caught by careful observers. Nothing can keep one from being an in-

dividual, one’s thoughts and ideas stem from within and define the actions one takes, which in turn, forms the person one desires to be; nonetheless, society continuously puts pressure on indi-viduals in an attempt at control them. Uniqueness and personality may be gradually subdued, or in an even worse scenario, may never have the opportu-nity to develop. For example, schools may require uniforms, yet it is also hu-man nature to rebel against uniformity, allowing the individuality, present in all of us, even if it is not always visible, to shine through. Just as I, as a twin, constantly make the effort to solidify myself into the person I wish to be, others should realize that they too are individuals and should act upon it; we must take a stand and fight against the restricting bonds of society that renders us incapable of forging our own path in order to flourish as the diverse and unique society we strive to be.

Essay, Ashley Drengler (11)

“Sea

rch,

” Pen

cil,

Sal

lie R

oche

lle (9

)


“Dancing Over Oxford,” Digital Photograph, Trey Maurer (11)

OutmatchedEssay, Leiah Mendiondo (12)

“We start every class with a higher thought,” Laura kicks off the workout, proceeding to read an inspirational quote as people load their bars with plates, grab dumbbells from the supply closet, and excavate almost-satisfac-tory amounts of perseverance remain-ing from long days at work or school. “Bars up!” The call to begin warm up arrives with a mixture of dread, an-ticipation, excitement. A cacophony of beats and voices penetrates my skull, then slowly shifts into a neatly arrayed string of purposeful notes and words, lending itself momentarily to direct my muscles and bones. Warm up time… dead rows, curls… now transition to squats, lunges… finish with upright rows and presses. “Hold it at the top! Now drop your bars.” A thin and squeaky film, a sign that my body is attempting to regulate its temperature, encases my skin; my equilibrium sensors must regard me as a nuisance, as I deliberately over-load individual muscle groups, forcing each fiber to stretch and contract when it is not particularly in the mood. Or maybe I am the one not in the mood, and my muscles continue to do what they deem is best for me, both mentally and physically. The beauty of the gym is that there is no distinction between emotional and bodily needs, for both are satisfied concurrently. The gym re-veals humans’ nature to strive against the Second Law of Thermodynamics to create a sense of order, meaning, and control in life. This athletic facility is not simply a place, because as a building alone it is nothing; in this case, the people define what a GPS would refer to as a “des-tination.” The gym is alive and teem-ing with prickly energy, for there is no other “destination” on earth which so accurately reflects the universal human passion and hunger for self-satisfac-tion, in the exclusively acceptable form of perfection. The Greeks were the first to recognize the human craving for per-fection - all of the Olympian statues are pristine, reflecting ideal human beings; actually, they reflect states of desirable falsity, unattainable with their discour-aging and twisted beauties. “Desirable

falsity” sounds strangely attractive in a Siren kind of way. In a Siren kind of way, are we tricking ourselves into be-lieving we can actually attain the ideals portrayed by the Greeks, or anyone else for that matter? The man in the second row has con-vinced himself that he can regain his fleeting high school days of football stardom; the days when his body, mind and soul were their strongest; the days when he had the confidence and mana to act upon his feelings. The woman directly in front of me is a stunning combination of beauty and athleticism; but although she is physically active in the workout, her mind is evidently else-where. Perhaps the weight she bears is not in the barbell and plates, nor in the dumbbells, but in the baggage of a past relationship gone awry. These fasci-nating creatures are here, in this gym, for one reason and one reason only: to mold themselves into the images of the people they want to be, particularly be-cause they have, in their eyes, royally wrecked some parts of their own lives. Why am I here? Obviously I have no problems to compensate for; I am a sev-enteen year old young woman, blessed with a high school with endless oppor-tunities, genuine friends, and a loving family. Oh how the people around me at this gym suffer from severe cases of remorse and bitterness. I am just here because I love the workout, the feeling that I have nothing left to give once the training is over. Or so I tell myself. I should be a salesperson; I must admit, I do a superb job of convincing myself that I am content with every aspect of my life. Maybe I truly am content with every aspect of my life. Plop. A drop of sweat surprises me as it unremarkably explodes, silently, on the sprung wood floor; it is a con-tained bomb, like so many dreams of the people around me. As I wake from my reverie, I find that my muscles and bones are still hard at work, plugging away at the pump tracks. I suppose my mind is prone to wander off among the unknown sometimes. Now that I have returned, I find to my pleasure and disgust that I am perspiring profusely. I wonder if drops of perspiration are

the tears of the soul manifesting them-selves and pouring out into the earthly world; it is not an invalid idea, for in my mind people strain themselves through working out primarily when they feel the need to improve themselves or fix something either within or without of their powers. But I have forgotten that I am here solely to push myself as an athlete. I am positively not here to com-pensate for a dearth that may or may not be present anywhere in my life. So I toss the sweat-as-tears idea aside as a hypothesis disproven. I am confident that I will crumble under my own weight if I continue to hold this plank (and by “weight” I am in no way referring to a personal strug-gle), but I am still going. Hold it… shift weight forward… now back… Done. “Great job today, team! Give your-selves a round of applause!” [At this point there is much clapping, and the sound of water being gulped in large swallows.] Laura’s voice inserts itself into the exhaustion which is whirling about the room unchecked, inserts it-self as that little inspiring voice in the mind which is so often drowned out by raucous cut downs. For some enig-matic reason, her verbalization of the words gives them more meaning, more worth, more power - the ability to fight off the typically overpowering buzz of deprecation. I pretend that I am strong enough already; but her words give me, and everyone around me, the assurance that we are all so greatly needed - the assurance that we are acceptable, laud-able, and loved. Perhaps I can have the control over my life that I always desired; I feel thoroughly content with myself in the moment. Is this the ideal I was speculating about earlier, between the triceps and biceps tracks? No… yet I feel strangely happy with myself. (I was just fine before, do not forget; now I just feel happier.) I have done it again, and the gym has outmatched me. I sup-pose I will admit that I am not perfect, and that I do strive for order, meaning and control in my life; but the gym gives me the courage to at least attempt to be perfect, and to be satisfied with myself in the present.

“The beauty of the gym is that there is no

distinction between emotional and bodily

needs, for both are satisfied concurrently.

The gym reveals humans’ nature to strive

against the Second Law of Thermodynam-

ics to create a sense of order, meaning, and

control in life.”


Add more weight, stretch your limits

Soon the weak become the strongThe monstrous symphony of groans

Mix with the clink clank of solid iron

Like music to the ears of the dedicatedWhere men are made

Where men are brokenThis euphoric feud within oneself,

No one can begin to duplicate

Like Greek gods ruling over their domainConstantly improving, constantly striving

A place where the inner most struggles are resolvedInfinite reps of improvement and progress

Gym Rat LovePoem , Tristan Robinson (12)

“Bes

t Frie

nds,

” Wat

erco

lor a

nd In

k, E

than

Aus

burn

(12)

Oh, that this too, too stubborn ball would fly,Land, and roll itself into the hole,Or that the USGA had not setIts rulings against a mulligan! Oh God, God,How useless, weak, inaccurate, and uncontrollableSeem to me all the golf clubs in my bag! The course is a garden of weedsThat grows to seed. Golfers lacking and incapable in skill Fail it entirely. That I should make a putt!But four hours wasted – nay, more like five,So beautiful a day, that was to this Fun to a stressed out prince: so promising a round That I just might finally shoot under parAnd make a hole in one. Heaven and earthMust I record my quad? Why, my ball would soar up highAs if increase in swing speed had grownBy what it fed on, and yet, the first few holes—Let me not think of it. Frustration, thy name is golf!—A few holes, or ere my clubs were wornWith which I crushed balls on the rangeLike a pro, no mishits. Why I, even I— O God, a hacker that lacks technique and talent Would have played better!—Into the waterMy first drive, but no more like my drive Than mine to Tiger’s. The first few holes,Ere yet the divots of my most poorly struck shots Had been returned to their proper places,I picked up. Oh, most wicked game, to playWith no dexterity on impossible holes!It is not, nor cannot come to good. But soar, my ball, for I must finish the back.

Hamlet’s Golfing Woes

“The

cou

rse

is a

gar

den

of w

eeds

that

gro

ws t

o se

ed.”

Parody, Hans Uy (12)


Twisting, tugging, tangling innocent minds,Two string serpents deceive children of all kinds.

Little ones are lost, looping two tails,But persist with grit, not willing to fail.

Constant is the strenuous toil, Constricting the cryptic killer that coils.Strangling the enemy, as well as a fear,

Young ones grow proud the end draws near.One last knot,

The shoelaces are fought.

Tied UpPoem, Sabrina Rodriguez (11)

“Unlaced,” Digital Photograph, Gaby Caliendo (11)

With the flip of the closet light,My repetitious days begin.

You grab my laces,Unceremoniously forcing your foot

(Odorous, wriggling)Into my flesh.

Knotting me up andUsing me, day after day.I have nothing to live for,

My sole has been tread upon.

Lost Sole

“Cre

pe S

oul,”

Ink

and

Col

lage

, Ben

nett

Wor

d (1

1)

Poem, Sydney Watt (12)


Guardian of Axiom,Lake of silver,

Or instead, river?Flow smoothly,Flow infinitely,

Flow.It is not what you look at,

But what you see…Continue to show,

To infinity!Oh, you paint with sublimity.

So truthful, so honestSymbol of divinity.

Mirror mirror on the wall,You’re the fairest of them all.

But I cannot see you, Only your thoughts.

Reflections on a MirrorPoem, Juan Lopera (12)

“Vanity,” Digital Photograph, Jenna Thomas (11)


Labyrinth of the MindEssay, Jen Soules (12)

Aria entered the recreation room, her folder in her pale arms, looking at the chairs where her patients were waiting. One was mumbling to himself, rock-ing back and forth, his arms wrapped around his slender legs. In the corner, an elderly man stared at a wall intently in absolute silence. Several chairs away sat another man, in his mid-thirties, holding a ball of yarn, twisting it in his fingers, as if it could give him guidance or protection. Aria glanced down at the file again. “Mr. Borges?” No one glanced up or moved. “Mr. Borges?” she repeated, tapping the folder with her manicured fingers. An orderly approached the man who was holding the ball of yarn and nudged him, trying to get his attention. After a minute, he finally looked up and followed the man to Aria. She smiled, her lips tight, thin, and pressed against

each other, before leading him into a small room with two chairs, where he sat down. Sitting in front of him, she crossed her legs and opened the folder she’d received. Aria wore her dark brown hair in a tight bun, and wore a neatly pressed suit with heels that clicked whenever she walked across the tile floors of the hospital. Her cheekbones were sharp, and she had a stern look about her. She gazed at the man before her through her rimmed glasses for a moment before looking back into the file. “Your name is Aster Borges, correct? Born August 24, 1947?” She waited a moment until he nodded. She stared down at the photo she had. The black and white picture was from his arrest, showing his height at six-foot-four, with a scruffy black beard and beady dark eyes that peeked out from his bushy eyebrows. His large

bulbous nose was covered in pock-marks. Grime covered his face in the photo, although he had been cleaned up now. His arms were very hairy, and he was slightly overweight. Now that an orderly had shaved and cut his hair, and forced him to take a shower, he looked more his age. Sighing, she looked at him twist-ing the dirty yarn in his pudgy fingers. “Aster, do you understand why you’re here?” She observed him as he glanced up and then quickly back down again. “The police found you outside your parents’ old home on fire. Do you re-member that?” Silence. “Aster, I want to help you, and I can only do that if you tell me what hap-pened.” Suddenly Aster pulled his feet into the chair and placed his head in his large hands and started crying.

Alarmed, Aria was unable to speak, staring at him as he rocked back and forth, the yarn clenched in his fist. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he repeat-ed, sobbing into his knees, drenching the white pants with his tears. Aria sat quietly, watching him with her pen in her small hand. She didn’t speak, observing the way he moved, thinking about his reaction. “They found gaso-line on your coat and matches in your pocket. Are you aware of the position that you’re in?” He kept repeating the two words, a little more quietly now, but barely pausing to breathe. “You’re in a psychiatric ward, Aster. They de-cided not to put you on trial because of your mental state. We’re going to get you some help, alright Aster?” When he didn’t respond, she stood and left, signaling for some orderlies to take him back to his room and help him settle in. ***** Aster sat in front of her, his hands fiddling with the yarn as he stared down at it. For the first few minutes they sat in absolute silence. Finally, Aria shut the folder and leaned forward, her chin in her hands. “Aster, I want you to tell me about your family. What was your childhood like?” “I don’t want to talk about that,” he said quietly, almost whispering. “Aster, I promise nothing you say will leave this room. I just want to know what happened to you.” “I said I don’t want to talk about it!” Aster shouted, looking at her with wid-ened eyes, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. He then quickly looked back down at his shoes, retreating into silence again. Aria glanced down at the file in her lap, narrowing her eyes as she read through some of the information she and the police had compiled from the hospital records. “It says here that you had an older brother named Aegeus?” Aster’s shoulders tensed, and he placed his hands on the sides of his head, rocking back and forth. “He died of an asthma attack when you were eight and he was fif-teen. It happened in his sleep.” “SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Aster screamed. Aria remained still, her ap-pearance calm and professional. Two orderlies entered the room, both broad shouldered and strong, and dragged

him from the room, forcing a needle into his neck to make him docile. ***** Aria tapped her pen on the clipboard, watching Aster closely. He was playing with the ball of yarn again, his eyes in-tensely watching it. Leaning forward, she stared at him until he looked back up at her. “How are you doing, Aster?” “I’m okay,” he said quietly, shift-ing in his seat. He rolled and unrolled the ball, leaning down and placing it on the floor. He didn’t speak much with other patients, just playing with the yarn, rolling it through the hallways and following it back when he reached the end. “I know we’ve adjusted your medications again. Have you had any sudden changes in mood? Have you become depressed at all?” He shook his head to indicate no. “Alright.” She marked the paper on her clipboard, making a scratch-ing noise with the pen. “Aster, I want you to tell me about the day of the fire. What happened?” “I always walk by the house every day. I went to the park across the street. There was too much noise. Too much shouting. There was a baby crying and it made me sad. I remembered when I was sad. I wanted him to be happy and not cry. So I took away what made him sad.” “What made the baby sad, Aster?” He pointed at the photo of an old abandoned house, rotting and deterio-rating, falling apart as the wood fell to the sunlight and rain, unkept by anyone. “The house makes him scared and cry. He doesn’t want to see it anymore.” Aria looked at him for a moment and nodded, before standing and open-ing the door. “Our appointment is over. Why don’t you go to the recreation room and do some puzzles, alright?” With hunched shoulder, he walked out the door, leaving her alone in the room with the file and her own thoughts. ***** Aria opened the file at her desk, wip-ing her brow after hours of research in the library, police station, and courts. She looked down at the records of Aster’s family. His mother Pasiphae Toro, now deceased for several years, had been an alcoholic, admitted sev-eral times to a rehabilitation center. His father, Dante “Barilotto” Borges, had been admitted to several foster

homes in his own childhood, due to his abusive parents. She shut the file and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs, staring at the family photos before her. Photos of the family at a ranch, a bull in the background, watching. They had grins on their faces. Aster sat on Aegeus’s shoulders, waving at the cam-era. ***** Aria called Aster into her office, mo-tioning for him to sit. He didn’t move. “Aster, please have a seat.” he nodded, and let himself fall back into the leather cushions of the chair. She flipped through her file once more until a finger covered in a light pink polish stopped the pages as she reached the part she wanted. “You were sent to the hospital several times for burns on your arms as well as cuts?” He didn’t look up, immediately becoming still and quiet. His hand clenched around the yarn in his fist, protecting it from any outside force. Aria stood, slowly walking towards him, her heels clicking on the floor, be-fore kneeling at his side. He still stared at his feet. Her manicured hand rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, watching his face which remained emotionless. Slowly, she turned his arm so that his palm faced upward and she could see the other side of his arm. Scars covered him from elbow to wrist, only broken by the occasional burn mark about the size of a quarter. He finally glanced into her eyes before yanking his arm away. “Did your parents do this to you?” she whispered, touching his shoulder gently. Her stern face had faded into something softer, kinder. He didn’t an-swer. Slowly, her hand went to his and uncurled it from around the ball of yarn. Immediately, his hand closed again. She wondered why he was so attached to it. She reached out and touched his face gently, her eyes softening, the lines from her face disappearing. “As-ter, I promise that no one is going to hurt you like that again. You’re safe.” Aster looked up and gave her a small smile before reaching his hand out. Slowly, his thick fingers uncurled from around the yarn, and took her by the wrist. He dropped the ball of yarn in her hands before curling her fingers around it. “Thank you, Aster.” Aria smiled and held his hand. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Don’t Look Down,” Colored Pencil, Kristin McCamy (12)


“Past the Breakers,” Digital Photograph, Sam Gonzalez (12)

Coward’s MindShort Story, Juan Lopera (12)

Gerry was staring over the edge of the immense cruise ship, 220 feet into the ocean. The obsidian water seemed inviting to him. In his drunken state, he was tired of life, tired of his job, and wanted only to sleep in that ever-moving black blanket below. “Save up your whole life for this? 28 years of existence and this is what I have to say for it. It’s all—It’s all...Y’know?” He turned, awaiting a response. Nothing. He peered over the edge, wonder-ing what it would be like to be a flying fish. Leaving his existence in the hands of some higher power, Gerry mounted the railing, balanc-ing precariously between the deck and the ocean below him. As the vessel swayed abruptly, Gerry felt an intense kinesthetic motion and the roar of wind in his ears. Wind and rain fell hard against the ship. It fell very hard. ***** The light-blue house was dying, but it was in no special hurry. With every spray of clear, salty water, the house would dilapidate further, specks of wood and paint landing in the clear water. There was a hole now, on the top floor of house. It was of no consequence to Gerald however; he didn’t even sleep in the house, seeing it only as a source of firewood. Indeed, the house was dead at night and far too dark for him. Instead he would sleep on the beach and listen to the waves lap

against the sand, the sound reso-nating in his ears. In many places waves and tides change, but not here. Every day as the sun rose, Gerald was lightly awoken by the flooding of the high tide. Gerald had no recollection of where he was and he didn’t re-ally care. He was an old man with a thick beard, in an old suit that was torn at the seams. He wore no shoes. He had fading memories of his past life—he was a clerk at the Department of Public Safety and he vaguely remembered saving up ten years for a vacation, and then he was just here. He had begun to enjoy the simple life that he lived there on that island, swimming and fishing and eating coconuts and sleeping when he wanted. But it was not always like this. Many times Gerald had tried to swim away. However, whenever he swam towards the horizon, away from his island, he would somehow return to it, as if every path he took lead to the same place. Though his desola-tion once embittered him, his sanity was preserved by one guiding prin-ciple—he was there for a reason. He didn’t know what it was but he was sure there was one. It was a wonderful day of fishing. Every day was a wonderful day of fishing. Today however, it began raining. It had never rained before and Gerald did not like the rain. He ran into the house and hid from the storm outside. There was a deafen-ing crash upstairs. Arriving at the top floor with a spear in hand, Ger-ald heard a snore. He found on the dilapidated mattress a young man covered in grime, his body caked in salt. He was in his late twenties and wore a suit, and he had somehow landed through the roof, asleep. The sleeper awoke as Gerald exam-ined his face. “What—what the—,” the sleeper yelled in bewilderment. He was cut short by the threatening spear being shoved into his cheek. “Who are you?” the old man asked sternly. The younger man hesitated but continued, intimidated by the spear. “Last night, I was on a cruise and I—I was very drunk so I don’t—

remember much but—Do you live here? Where am I? Can you get the Coastguard? I must’ve drifted here. That’s it.” “But what is your name boy? Your name!” “I’m Gerry. Why does that mat-ter?” With a smile, Gerald dropped his spear. “You are Gerald Thomp-son? Of Marfa, Texas? You are the Gerald who crashed into the fire hydrant in his own front yard the day after getting his license? The Gerald whose favorite food is con-densed milk?” “Yes, but—hey, wait. WHAT? How do you know all—” “Oh Gerald, I have been waiting for you for so very long.” He mo-mentarily looked at him cheerfully but his fascination quickly turned to dread. “You did it didn’t you? You jumped. Why did you jump? Why did we jump?” Bewildered, Gerry rose. “How do you know…I didn’t jump damnit. I fell. Okay? I fell. And what are you talking about ‘we’? Are you crazy or something? I don’t even know who you are old man.” “Can’t you see, you fool. I am you. We are Gerald Thompson.” “NO,” shouted Gerry. “That is not possible. We can’t be the same person. That isn’t—” He hesitated, seeing his familiar yet aged face. “That was it then, huh? You just gave up. That was what you did. You died. You left it up to fate but deep inside that is what we want-ed—to die.” “Look, I was drunk. It was stupid. I regret it but at least I’m—we’re—fine.” “You don’t understand. You are a coward, Gerald. And so am I. Cow-ards.” The old man lifted his spear and walked towards his younger self, approaching him with the tip pointed to his chest. “You think like in a movie we would die a thousand causal deaths—with none of that intensity which squeezes out life. But no one gets up after death—there is no applause. Death is not. It is nonexistence. Mil-lions run and run from death and you, you inconsiderate—We ran to death, Gerry. We ran to it. Our

life wasn’t even cruel, Gerry. They are faced with diseases and murder and rape and genocide and we—we killed ourself out of spite. We are the apex of weakness. How could we be so selfish, Gerry? What about Mom? And Susan? And the people at DPS—they loved us, Gerry. They loved us! As the older man with maddened ferocity, began to push him towards a massive hole in the house, Gerry began to panic. “What are you doing? How is this—Hey man, drop the spear, okay? I didn’t mean it. I fell off the rail! I FELL! Please, stop! Please!” “Do it again. Jump,” said the older man with passive resolve. “Wha-what? NO! Are you crazy? I won’t do it. I messed up, okay? I understand now. I under—” “There is no choice in this mat-ter; you have made your choice. If that was our destiny, then so is this, and if there is no explanation for us, let there be none for this.” The old man dropped his spear and ran toward him and they flew into the air like flying fish and they held each other as the wind roared in their ears, and as they fell, the old man whispered gleefully, “Wake up.” ***** The rain was so heavy now that it formed a haze in the night. Gerry was soaking. And his head ached. “I guess this is what hell is like,” he thought. He opened his eyes and found himself facedown on the deck. He could not see very clearly through the heavy rain but he saw an old man with greying hair and no shoes looking down at him. The voice above him scolded him. “You drunk idiot! If the ship had tipped the other way you’d be dead right now. DEAD! I mean what were you thinking. Life isn’t a game kid. You only get one life.” “Never again. Never. I’m sor—,” whispered Gerry. “Don’t apologize to me you clown,” the old man said with a chuckle that echoed through the cloud of rain that surrounded him. The old man dissolved into the storm as the thunder rattled into the darkness.

“Though his desola-tion once embittered him, his sanity was preserved by one guid-ing principle—he was there for a reason.”


In Enumclaw it rains always and I love itI confess that I like being alone

To me solitude tastes like spinachYou too know it is healthy but the taste is repulsive to you

Me I like the taste of both very much

On the crying bench in the park many cry and all know it as the crying bench so it is normal to find crying there

almost every day someone cries

I dislike the crying bench very muchIt misrepresents lonesomeness

gives it bad publicity

And so to fix this I hug the crierwhomever it may be

To help criers I think is a valiant effort but mostly it ends in fits

(Dave used to kick me out of the park but not anymore)

It’s all drama and the criers cry tears of loneliness and there I am to help and of course the hypocrites throw tantrums

To them it is mustard gas but to me spinach

Dave is a veteran and he works at the parkand a while back I caught him watching the criers from the forest

and so now he leaves me aloneI used to look down on it but

He’s taught me cynicismand in fact we watch together sometimes

the criers

He likes the taste of solitude and so we do not talk of courseever but we think the same things

And he brings the binoculars and I the spinach saladAnd we sit alone, together

Alone, TogetherPoem, Juan Lopera (12)

I sail across your spumous seasYou tussle my heartWith vagrant wavesTumultuous paradise

Wooshing, crashingYou smoothen and coarsen and cleave

My wide-eyed affection–Make up your mind

A playground for skilled swimmers A tempest for rookies

Tumultuous ParadisePoem, Gloria Yanez (12)

“Taciturn,” Watercolor, Hamlet Newsom (12)


Those 8 hours of tranquility, the hours spent beneath a cloak of relaxation, head rested upon a cloud of dreams, act as an opiate, a drug so strong that it could wipe out a mil-lion worries in blink of an eye. Why is sleep so crucial to the human soul?

Maybe it is because it is the only time in our lives where our worries truly melt away into the oblivion. Maybe it is because it is the time of day where we are the most real, the most raw we have ever been with ourselves, every coat of superficiality disappearing into the deep unknown.

Everything that is going through our heads when we are asleep is exactly what we are feeling, the truest of our emo-tions finally bleeding freely onto the paper that was inten-tionally kept white to fool anyone at first glance. Sleep is a time where we don’t have to fake anything to anyone, our

The Infatuation with Sleep

dreams subconsciously reflecting who we are and what we are feeling.

The act of sleep is an outlet made for decompression, an opportunity to let go of all the things we have tried so forcefully to hold on to. Security is also found within the few hours of slumber, consciousness suspended. We don’t have to think about where we will end up in ten years, what time our dad is going to call, or even whom we can rely on at the end of the day.

But suddenly, eyes open, we awake, and for a few glorious seconds we are oblivious to the hurricane of misery, stress, and pain swirling incessantly around us. Then, instanta-neously, the chaos hits us like a bullet, a painful yet familiar feeling, all the sadness, all the stress jolted at us like a thou-sand pounds, only to be released when we close our eyes.

She is a hawk, talons sharpened and gripping tight.Destroying any care or love.

Her cold talons grip the minds of youth,Slipping into their thoughts,

Leaving them unsympathetic to the utter chaosSurrounding themSuffocating them

As they sit in silence, ignoring the pain.

But it doesn’t matter. Why would it? Who cares?Not he nor her nor the student in the chair.

Perhaps the child in the cribInnocence unboundSees pain and reacts,

Weeps at the pain all around.But soon Apathy finds her

She is tired of despairShown on the screen as she watches, idly.

Her thoughts fade awayFrom the screams,

To that final resting place in her mind.

ApathyPoem , Jen Soules (12)

Prose Poem , Carson Kessler (11)

“Reality vs. Fantasy,” Ink, Basie Minus (12)

“Plu

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ep,”

Mon

oprin

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“Wai

ting

for F

all,”

Oil,

Kat

harin

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ent

(12)

Camouflaged Essay, Katharine Clement (12)

There was no visible light out, the sun not yet awoken, the moon just put to bed, and I remember the story “Goodnight Moon,” a favorite of mine that my father would read to me as a kid before tucking me in. As my eyes adjust, I notice a subtle difference be-tween the black of the skeletal trees and the grey of the quiescent sky, such hid-den features that emerge from darkness, but only seen when one is truly look-ing. How much we miss during sleep! It was calm out this morning; crickets chirping, dew still fresh on the grass, a frigid breeze piercing the silent air. Winter was coming, if not already here. Coffee in hand, I slip on my thick cam-ouflage socks and waders, still covered with fresh mud from yesterday’s hunt and grabbing my gun, I sling it over my shoulder, its weight light in compari-son to societal burdens and pressures. I exhale, my breath visible, the cold air growing ever more unkind to my abil-ity to breathe, but I do not complain. There is no set path, no designated trail to mark our way to the blind, just a few patches of mud, grass and weeds, flat-tened where other hunters have trudged to make their journey. Keep moving. A few feet further, as I watch where I am walking, distinguishing only the varia-tions in values of the shadows, I fix my eyes on my father. The lake is lower than I remember, only now waist deep, and as I hoist my gun above my head, I cross towards the blind hidden in the brush. I remember the first hunt here with my father, hav-ing to ride on his back, guns strapped to my shoulders, while he was tasked with the inconvenience of carting me across the pond, cold water threatening to consume our bodies with every step. I continue wading, fingers growing ever colder, body growing ever stiffer, mind growing ever clearer. Duck calls, the whistles of blue winged teal, are heard in the distance. This a good sign. Breathing a sigh of relief, I am at last away from the noise and chaos of so-ciety, where I continually pretend to be someone I’m not, hiding my feelings and emotions, burying my weaknesses, endlessly tired, burdened. Only during hunting, when I can hear the orchestra of ducks, cicadas, crickets, and frogs,

am I truly awake. Arriving at the blind, we stand still to listen for whistling of teal, the cold consuming us once again; can’t stay in one place for too long. Through the doorway I climb, kicking away the abandoned shotgun shells, leaning my gun against the splintered wood alongside my father’s, observing the two weapons of destruction, weap-ons that were instead providing me an opportunity for self-reflection and instilling in me new hope in a world where I was overwhelmed, or rather, grappling between illusion and reality. The occasional splash in the wa-ter lets me know my father has started the long arduous process of setting up the tangled, duckweed covered de-coys. His hands will soon be stiff and cold, no amount of heat from his chai tea filled Duck Dynasty mug able to thaw. Deciding to take a short walk before shooting time, I leave the blind and make my own path through the tall grass. As I wander, the busy bee voices inside my head slowly begin to fade away. In this silence, this luxuriousness of complete and utter absence, I am left with one voice, my voice, and my mind at last can rest, allowing me to hear, in-terpret, and understand my voice, un-clouded and unaffected. As I listen, I notice the lone white flower trying to bloom amidst the mud and fallen trees (just like me). It is in moments such as this that I identify with Emerson, see-ing and understanding reality only by stepping away from distraction. Now and again some voice raised, some pas-sage of wind, some song from insects, will stir a responsive chord in me, com-bining notes of peace and contentment and providing me with an unfeigned and authentic experience in nature, outside the realms of society’s chaos, which overwhelms the senses of an al-ready delicate palate. Approaching the dirt path, I can no longer hear the faint splashes behind me. Looking forward, I know the way is flat, but there lie ob-stacles in hidden places, so I turn back. I stop short of entering the blind, watching my father cup his hands around his duck call and know that he, along with I, understand one another. It is here, in a time of such strength where man has power, clutching the ultimate

weapons of destruction, that I can show my weakness, and my true self. To hide it causes further injury, a lesson both my father and I learned the difficult way. Suddenly, a beating of wings is heard overhead and I crouch beside the blind, head down to hide the pieces of my ghostly face left exposed by my hat and neck warmer. My father looks to his left, spotting me, and through the camouflaged mask, I know he is smil-ing, recognizing that this is a genuine smile, not one contrived to hide stress and fatigue from the pressures of soci-ety. Do we all hide things out of fear that others see our weaknesses? In nature, hunting with my father, I have learned that internalizing all these pres-sures only adds a bigger burden to the one we so wish to lighten. When I slide out of my waders just as the sun is rising, I begin to feel the numbness of my frozen toes, the pain in my right shoulder where the gun is sure to leave a bruise. And yet, I’m okay with that. It’s better now that I don’t have to worry about the ticks in my head. No more would I be ashamed to admit my weaknesses, as it is only by exposing them that I can learn from them. My father taught me that lesson. Hunting in the early morning in the qui-etude of nature away from society and its many obstacles gave me the chance to see and live it. I could begin to ex-amine my own insecurities with a new outlook, to start to focus on the posi-tive in situations, and to bring compas-sion, empathy, and solidarity to my sur-roundings so entrapped by trivial and materialistic matters, surroundings full of individuals so fearful of the words, opinions, and judgments of neighbors, those silent accusations that drive our emotions, actions, and ultimately de-termine the facade we project. Through hunting, I gained a newfound confi-dence, in myself, in my upbringing, in my interests and ideas, as I no longer desired to morph myself into someone else, hiding my weakness out of fear of looking foolish and being vulner-able. To remember who we really are, to remind us what is truly important in society and in ourselves, we have to be away from everyone and everything. We need silence.

“Now and again some voice raised, some passage of wind, some song from insects, will stir a responsive chord in me, combining notes of peace and contentment and pro-viding me with an unfeigned and authentic experience in nature, outside the realms of society’s chaos.”


A Girl With a View Screenplay, Alexia Salingaros (10)

EXT. GARDEN COURTYARD Claire is walking slowly, taking in the colors and the noises around her.

She comes to the centerpiece in the courtyard, and plac-es her hand to feel it as she walks around it. She contin-ues until she stops on the opposite side.

An elderly looking painter has set up his easel in front of Claire and is in the midst of capturing the beauty of the metalwork.

Claire has lingered for too long and now one of her classmates comes tell her to catch up with the rest of the group. She reluctantly starts to walk after them, and then begins to run.

Cross Dissolve: feet running, new location.

EXT. School Yard Claire is running away from a group of school kids, but they follow her and begin to push her around and call

her names.

Jump Cuts:

Kid 1: Hey, why don’t you look at me? Kid 2: How many fingers?

They are all laughing and Claire is trying to shake them off but every time she turns someone else pushes her.

Kid 3: Get out of here freak!

Kid 4: Why are you all alone?

Kid 1: Let’s get out of here!

The group agrees that they’ve had enough. Laughing, they push Claire over as they leave. She stumbles and falls near the playground wall, putting her head down- trying not to show signs of weakness.

EXT. Grassy Park The park is green and lively, with people throwing Frisbees and walking their dogs. The same painter as

before has set up his easel, facing the small river, and is in the middle of painting. He replenishes his brush with paint and is about to add a stroke when he sees Claire walking in the distance: head down, face wet, and feet kicking up small mounds of dirt. He smiles to himself, puts down his brush and walks away- leaving his paint-ing standing by itself. Claire walks up to it and begins touching it. The man returns, but when she hears his footsteps she starts to back away quickly.

Man: No- it’s ok! I’d like you to know more about my painting. Here…He reaches for her hand and slowly guides it around the edges of the frame.

Cut to:

The two of them are now sitting together in the grass, relaxed and talking to each other. He has out paper and a pen, and is trying to teach her about his passion for art. Man: … When you have this spark of inspiration, it’s all about expressing yourself in a way that others can feel it too. When I paint- I express my inspiration through the brushstrokes and the colors… Here! Touch this and see how it feels to you.

The man gives her a moment to explore the painting then picks a flower from the field and puts it under

Claire’s nose. She takes a deep breath in. Man: Breathe in. What do you smell?

Claire: Sweet, but strong.

Man: The flower is a beautiful egg-yellow, the petals are of the softest silk, and the stem is a beautiful pine-tree. And when it moves-

The man throws the flower into the air.

Man: It flies like the wind…

Crane Shot up as flower grows to fill camera:

INT. MUSEUM Claire is walking through a museum, her walking cane out and guiding her. Her eyes are fixed on a spot above the painting at the end of the hallway, glass-like and clouded. She stops right in front of the painting, smiles, closes her eyes, and clutches tightly the flower in her hand.

The stills are taken from the film A Girl with a View starring Tatum Stewart as Claire and Roger Pratt as the Man. The film was written, edited, and di-rected by Alexia Salingaros and produced by Aamu Karla. Isabella Meador was the assistant director.


The Principal’s Kid

“Bur

ied,

” Oil

Pas

tel,

Julia

na F

agan

(11)

The steady buzz of nervous voices clearly ringing out “present” swarm my ears. I perch at the edge of my chair, a model of perfection, with my back straight and my hands crossed, waiting anxiously to be called. As the teacher pauses for an extra second before saying my name, I urge my-self to announce my presence with assurance and poise. The moment “Emma Reford” leaves the teacher’s lips, every one in the room cranes their necks to look for me, instantly recognizing the name. My classmates do not avidly search for me because I am a celebrity, some sort of child star. Quite the contrary. They know my name, my last to be specific, from the hundreds of announcements they have heard about their new head of school—my father. My peers, their parents’ warnings ringing in their ears, are more than aware that they must be an exceptional welcoming committee. To them, the smiling young girl—a small frame with smooth brown hair and polished shoes, her binder brim-ming with sparkly stickers — seemed to be an annoying goody-two-shoes. After a few more seconds of observa-tion, they finalize their opinion of me, share exasperated glances, and return their attention to the teacher, an older woman with a tuft of white hair who was watching me closely as well. These were my first moments of Middle School. A wide-eyed and petrified sixth grader, I was starting in a brand new school, in a brand new city, in a brand new state. My father was the newly appointed headmaster, so my sister and I were to attend this school. It was clear my new teachers

and classmates would have to figure out how to react towards me since I was not an average new student, for my father’s position affected how others perceived me. I was immedi-ately ignored by my classmates and obsessed over by my teachers. Even though my father held the reins in the school, I felt powerless against the stampede of judgment and observa-tion that rushed towards me. My teachers and classmates assumed I was a lazy girl who had everything handed to her and reported everything back to her father. Distraught over my new labels, I became insecure, embar-rassed, and worried I would somehow mess up and ruin everything, for both my father and myself. My every move was watched, analyzed, and reported like a specimen of a science experiment. Throughout my time at this school, I grew extremely accustomed to being the object of intense scrutiny. Because the teachers presumed I was impolite to my friends and disrespectful of my belongings, they dissected my actions in the hallway to an obsessive degree. At passing periods, I might simply tiptoe past the teachers at the end of the hall and provoke whispers of how short my skirt was, how I had appeared to hurt my friend’s feelings, or how I had slammed my books on the ground. Expecting me to blunder, the teachers fervently waited for the most opportune moment to pounce. Their heads hungrily followed me, stalking their prey, as I walked into my next class. Ogling me with their mouths pursed in a flat, thin line, their eyes pressed into slits, and their

beady pupils zipping back and forth, I was examined as though I were a circus show freak. I fled the hallways as swiftly as I could, praying no errors had been caught. Most of the time, this superfluous observation would drive me to tears. The teachers attacked me with their corrections, forcing me to pull my hair back, cross my legs, or redo my work. Wanting to prove to the other students that I was not favored, the teachers always found another flaw to point out. One teacher specifically would humiliate me in front of the whole class daily by mocking how I sat and spoke. Although I sat no differ-ently than the other students, she only reprimanded me. Whether by coming up to me and shoving my legs into a more “lady-like” position, or calling me out in the middle of the lesson for whatever reason she could think of, her beak poked and prodded me from every direction. Causing further em-barassment. my teacher would imitate my more east-coast way of speaking or the slight accent I had picked up from my father, an Irish man. This same hunter zealously tracked my academic efforts as well. When we had to simply show her our homework to prove we had done it, she would pause for ten minutes to inspect only my work. In addition, this teacher once gave us a pop quiz that everyone failed; however, she only sought out me for my grade so she could criticize my studying techniques and seeming-ly lackadaisical work ethic. Not only did the teachers stalk my every move, but the other children in my grade, and even the whole school, studied me

Essay, Emma Reford (10)

“My name, an inheritance that I had no control over, was my bright orange jumpsuit, and I was recognized

everywhere I went in the school.”

as well. It was very difficult for my class-mates to accept me, and they regarded me as an outsider for a long time. With their disparaging gazes and ag-gravated tones, they acted as though I had committed a crime and was in jail. My name, an inheritance that I had no control over, was my bright orange jumpsuit, and I was recognized ev-erywhere I went in the school and my every footfall left a “that’s the princi-pal’s daughter” in my wake. Because they thought I never had to work for anything, other students were furious at me, snubbing me by leaving me out of social events and blocking me from lunch-table gossip. It was also a great exertion for my classmates to sim-ply engage in conversation with me. Could they bash teachers, gossip about parties, or murmur their crushes? Convinced I would report their every

word back to my father, they accused me of espionage every time they spoke condescendingly to me of their pets or favorite foods. They only saw a girl whom they thought was convinced she was the princess in her father’s castle. As I progressed through Middle School, I grew increasingly used to being the principal’s kid, even grow-ing fond of my title. However, I only adapted because I had altered my ways in order to please everyone. I was never involved in an argument or gossip-session, I never talked back to my teachers, and I always watched what I said. My challenge was to impress my friends, teachers, and family, while also remaining myself. I couldn’t be lost to a mindless robot that only repeated what others wanted it to say and did what others wanted it to do, but it took me a couple of years to find the perfect balance.

At first, I had been angry that I was forced into the position as the princi-pal’s kid, but by the end of my jour-ney, I felt blessed to have received the opportunity. My experience instilled a desire to prove myself. I had to show my teachers and classmates that everything was not simply handed to me, so I went out of my way to work harder than everyone else, to be a bet-ter friend than everyone else, and to be a better member of the school than everyone else. I ran neck and neck with my hunters for a while, some-times slipping dangerously close to be-ing captured or trampled, but I pulled ahead. I ran farther and farther away from their tormenting glares, invasive corrections, and judgmental com-ments. Finally, exhausted and nearly defeated, I escaped; my trail was lost. Freedom.


He sings down her spineEnchanting his muse

And she dances through the chills

He plucks her sorrowed heartstringsExploiting his muse

But she smiles through the tear

When Music Plays the MusePoem, Trina Navarro (12)

La música es como un idioma,solo el que escucha puede entender.

Las melodías son como luces,Guiándote hacia el final de la frase.

Cada canción tiene un significado,

diferente para cada persona.Cada canción tiene una historia,escondida detrás de las notas.

¿Cómo es que algo tan sencillo

puede ser tan complejo? ¿Cómo es que un sonido único

puede hacer llorar o bailar?

La vida sin la músicaes como un cuadro en blanco y negro

La vida sin la músicaes como un mar sin agua.

La música es como un idioma.

El idioma del corazón.

La música es como un idioma Spanish Poem with translation, Inma Escalante (11)

Music is like a language,Only the one who listens can understand.

The melodies are like lights,Guiding you to the end of the phrase.

Each song as a significance,Different for each person,

Each song has a story,Hidden behind the notes.

How is it that something so simpleCan be so complex?

How is it that a single soundCan make one cry or dance?

Life without musicIs like a black and white canvas.

Life without musicIs like an ocean without water

Music is a language:The language of the heart.

“Songbird,” Mixed Media, Maddie Kellum (12)


Savoring Tiropitakia with PapuEssay, Aristos Brandt (9)

The tiropitakia, a small crescent-shaped cheese pie, baked at Fani’s Bak-ery in Palia Fokia, are the best cheese pies I have ever tried in Greece. The bakery is well known throughout the region, despite its location in a small coastal village, on a side street. In Greece, people take the food they eat very seriously, flocking to small pri-vately owned restaurants and shops. Among local culinary desires, cheese pies are a passion of Greeks. When-ever Greeks visit a new place, the first thing they do is seek out the bakery and sample the local cheese pies. As a half-Greek, I naturally joined in the quest, tutored by my grandfather Papu Stephanos on what made a good cheese pie. Papu would call them “triopitakia” as a play on words, because when we made them at home from phyllo dough we made them into triangles. His eyes would gleam with a mischievous twin-kle and he would chuckle every time he said “triopitakia.” Just east of Athens along the coast, Palia Fokia is a place where locals get-away for a day, weekend or month at the beach. Many Athenians like my Papu built small summer homes there to have a place to escape the sweltering summer heat of Athens. Palia Fokia has a small harbor lined with colorful fish-ing boats, you can buy the day’s catch direct from the fishermen. Either side of the harbor stretches a series of sandy beaches. The town offers a hardware store, a pharmacy, a butcher shop, some small groceries, and touristy beach shops. Palia Fokia is not a tourist des-tination; however, many foreigners pass by it on the coastal road heading to see the sunset at the Temple of Poseidon

down the road at Sunion. A few exorbi-tant fish restaurants right on the beach aggressively beckon in the passing cars. Fani’s is a thriving family bakery, harking back to a different era. It is not a modern cafe for drinking coffee and eating pastries. The bakery reveals its mission with a big “FOURNOS” sign on its façade. Inside, the space is wide, but not very deep, with glass display cases across the side. The cases are filled with pastries, cookies and other sweets, ex-cept for the one with the warm cheese and spinach pies. Along the back wall, loaves of fresh bread are stacked on shelves. Miss Fani, wearing a white apron with flour on her hands, holds court at the counter. I can glimpse the ovens and other bakers through the door behind her. I wonder if she ever sleeps, she is there at 7 AM and she is there when I go for something sweet at 10 PM. Never rushed, Miss Fani pleas-antly chats with the customers as she re-trieves their desired pastries and bread. People wait in line patiently, savoring the smells and eyeing one more pastry to try. The combined smells of fresh bread, cheese, and honey make me sali-vate. In front of the bakery on its dusty marble terrace an Algida-brand ice cream freezer draws in the local kids. It is the busiest shop on the street, and the parking spots in front are occupied by a steady stream of customers. Across the street from Fani’s sits a lot with some abandoned olive trees that leads up to a steep rocky hill. Tiropitakia are a simple food, with only a few ingredients, yet it is an art to make them well. The pastry crust varies from place to place, but Fani’s is very light and flaky. Fillings are made of

fresh cheeses, and Fani’s special filling is salty, with a sharpness that makes it delectably memorable. Her final touch is to brush a bit of butter on the top of the pies to make the crust shiny and crisp. The resulting tiropitakia is best eaten hot and fresh right out of the bak-ery oven. When my family buys them a kilo or two at a time, Miss Fani puts them into a box, without closing it all the way to keep the steaming pies from getting soggy. On the way home, the smell is so teasing that we always have to sneak a few. Maybe that is the real reason Fani does not close the box! I think what makes Fani’s tiropita-kia special is that I first had them with my Greek Papu Stephanos. Because the bakery is near his summer place Thym-ari, Fani’s was always a part of our visits there. He would proudly hold my hand and walk me into the bakery showing me off, his grandson from America. Papu would explain that while my par-ents had not followed the Greek tradi-tion and named me Stephanos, he was okay with that because the meaning of Aristos “perfect” fit me better. I was cute and blond, his “perfect and flaw-less” grandson. Miss Fani would agree and endearingly call me “agapimou,” my love. We went back every summer. On each visit, Miss Fani would com-ment on how much I had grown while she put our tiropitakias into a box. As I grew up, I watched my Papu become older. Now I was helping him walk to the car or down the street. Although my Papu died three years ago at age ninety-eight, I savored the little time I spent with him, just as I sa-vor the tiropitakia. Every morsel is as special as my memories of Papu.

Soft colored and delicately decoratedBitter tasting yet heart warming,You blanket secret exchanges. Forever remembered, treasured Past, future - united

Eagerness you brind to a camper’s faceWanting to know all happenings back home. Joy you bring to a motherAwaiting the news of her daughter’s first job A thousand miles away

Enslaved by technology Your quintessence overlooked by many Who suffere from impatience. “Yours truly” - replaced

“Yours Truly” ReplacedPoem, Gloria Yanez (12)

“Grandpa,” Digital Photograph, Marcela Madero (11)

“Tiropitakia are a simple food, with only a few ingredients, yet it is an art to make them well. The pastry crust varies from place to place, but Fani’s is very light and flaky. Fill-ings are made of fresh cheeses, and Fani’s special filling is salty, with a sharpness that makes it delectably memorable.”


Ce cher chat a chassé le rat hors de chez moi.Ce cher chat a trébuché et le rat a ri.

Ce cher chat a rougi comme un homard. VoiciLe rat qui a célébré sa victoire en roi.

Ensuite le chien est arrivé, a fait la loi.Après quelques jours, il est parti pour Paris.

Le rat est parti avec le vieux canari ;Ils sont allés à Québec, je ne sais pourquoi.

Le joyeux chien, à la tour Eiffel, veut monter.Il monte les escaliers pour dîner et aprèsIl grossit, ressemble à un petit éléphant.

Le chien monte en avion pour chercher ses amis ;L’avion magique rentre à son nid très rapidement.Les quatre amis se retrouvent à Québec et rient.

Les Aventures des AnimauxFrench Sonnet with translation, Fiona Mohamed (12), Steffi Sokolyk (12), Monica Trigoso (11)

This dear cat chased the rat around, oh my!This dear cat tripped and the rat laughed and hushed.

This dear cat, red like a cooked lobster, blushed.The rat praised success like king of Dubai.

Then the dog arrived and the rules fortified.After a few days, to Paris he rushed.The rat and canary a journey pushed.

They went to Quebec, I don’t know why.

Glad dog wants to climb the Eiffel Tower.He climbs the stairs to go eat and after,

Gains weight, looking like a small elephant.

To find his friends, the dog flew to scour.The magic plane soars to the nest faster.

The four friends meet in Quebec, excellent!

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Admiring Shadows in the Streets of Mexico City

Essay, Gloria Yanez (12)

Their Calzada de Las Aguilas

The avenue leads to the front gate of Loma de Guadalupe, the small and closely knit residential community my parents chose as their new home. Safeguarded by ten foot tall trees that slowly decay as the smog tenaciously multiplies day after day, this avenue, home to a multitude of personalities, is full of allure and vivacity. Mr. Montes, the light-hearted street vendor who knows all of his customers by name, introduces many newcomers to the delicious world of tacos al pas-tor and spicy chamoyadas while nine year-old soccer fanatics, striding up and down the street, chant hymns and

proudly sport Pumas jerseys on game days. However, Jirasol Park, across the street from my house, is what brings the whole community– grandparents, parents, teenagers, toddlers–together on Friday afternoons to enjoy the aus-piciousness of monkey bars, never-ending slides, colorful swing sets, and freshly painted see-saws. Everyday, the sun rises and chooses to linger above Jirasol Park, brightening moods, kiss-ing cheeks, and when the time of day comes, casting a pink and purple shad-ow above the entrance of the park, as if enchanted to meet all. Mom and Dad never mentioned Jira-sol Park to my yearning ears; therefore, all this beauty and animation were the

product of my imagination, inspired by Abuelita’s nostalgic memories that I frequently asked to hear about. “You took too long to get here,” Dad now says, “It’s not safe anymore.”

My Calzada de Las Aguilas Driving down the avenue, I look at the bronzing gate for the last time. I’m giving up. If I were to share my grandma’s memories of Jirasol Park with the kids around my neighborhood, I would receive perplexed gazes. Par-ents, who frequently refrain their kids from slipping through the security gate and scampering towards the rusty green entrance to Sol Park, would also

be none too pleased to find out that I was feeding their children’s curiosity. I say Sol Park because even the park’s sign has become a victim of Calzada de Las Aguilas’ lack of vivacity. Wannabe teen gangs lurk in the dark, preying on anybody they deem as unthreatening or weak, so families no longer dare - much less feel motivated - to repaint the gates or replace the fading sign. I notice how the smog has now con-quered all the trees as rapidly as the police sirens have muffled up all the gleeful chants. We are losing. Instead of kids sprinting up and down the av-enue, two suspicious-looking black SUVs routinely orbit the community, tailgating school buses and ignorantly racing kids who have no other choice but to ride their bikes to school. Teen-agers willingly follow the curfew hour of eight p.m and parents refuse to leave their kids home alone. But what agitates me the most is the fact that I never got to hear the see-saw squeak as friends prank each other to see who would fall off first, nor the swings woosh with the wind as kids make a contest out of who can jump the furthest, nor the toddlers joyful cheers as their parents take a turn on the infi-

nite slide. The sun still rises but no lon-ger lingers. The pink and purple shad-ows that my grandma once gazed at, have been consumed by gloomy blue and grey shadows that violence hurled upon the community.

Our Calzada de Las Aguilas

This is my sixth time visiting Mexico City since I left four years ago. Driving from Benito Juarez Airport, I wonder, today more than ever, if Jirasol Park has regained the fame it once owned before I was born. Three days ago we received the news that Señor Montes, who had been working Montes Tacos al Pastor for 30 years, lamentably passed away after an SUV sped down the avenue, lost control, and collided with the taco stand. Investigators later on linked the car chase with a drug-related dispute between two amateur narcotraffickers. As we cruise down Calzada de Las Aguilas, my heart comes to a sudden stop. The fences, once rusty and dete-riorated, are turquoise and refurbished. Paintings, showcasing the local el-ementary art classes’ masterpieces, hang on the concrete columns facing the street. A group of teenagers, with

young siblings in their arms, stroll around the park with dogs on leashes, occasionally freeing them to go fetch. Although this is the most animation I have seen at the park, it is the entrance that catches my attention. In honor of Mr. Montes, local busi-ness owners along with neighbors and the community council built a memo-rial on the side gate. White and black ribbons swirl with the wind, and lilies and roses delineate the sidewalk. In the middle, surrounded by consoling words and warming candles, Mr. Montes’s picture stands on an easel. Looking back as we enter Loma de Guadalupe, I notice the pink and purple shadows my grandma wistfully whispers about. We won. Although crime levels resolutely increase and parents hesitantly move elsewhere to protect their children, the small yet encouraging amount of ten-derness I encountered on my last visit to Calzada de Las Aguilas demonstrated its courage. Tentative of what I might see, I frequently refused to go back home, to be reminded of the germinat-ing pollution that early on convinced me to give up on my community. Now, I dream of pink and purple shadows.

“Be Aware,” Digital Photograph, Ariana Zamora (12)

“All this beauty and animation were the product of my imagination, inspired by Abuelita’s nostalgic memories

that I frequently asked to hear about.”


The Pomegranate TreeEssay, Adam Berman (12)

“It is time for everyone to take out a crayon box for coloring time” were the words my kindergarten mind interpret-ed as I stared blankly at the piece of in-timidatingly white printer paper on my desk. Like a wave at the beach gradu-ally rolls onto the shore, the sound pencils and markers on paper steadily grew from a single scratching scribble to the cacophonous roar of thirty ink and wax instruments ferociously mak-ing their impressions on paper. Af-ter the scribbling subsided, I glanced down at my drawing, a man with two legs, two arms, and a head. Suddenly, I froze as I noticed that the boy sitting next to me was clearly examining my picture; without warning, he began to laugh while tauntingly pointing his fin-ger at the paper, mocking it. The next words that exited the boy’s mouth ut-terly perplexed me: “You colored his skin pink!” he exclaimed, giggling as he said it. Impossible, I initially thought: Clearly I colored the man’s skin a peachy flesh color, certainly not pink. To confirm my conjecture, I inconspicuously dart-ed my eyes down to the crayon I had used and immediately received a jolt as surprising as leaping into a cold river: there, printed in black ink on the paper sheath of the crayon read the solitary word, “pink.” Mortified and ashamed, I quickly whisked the paper away into the dark depths of my backpack and nervously contemplated the situation: After personally illustrating the draw-ing, why was I unable to notice any is-sue with the color of the man? Inevitably, my mother found out about the crayon incident – she always seems to have some way of discovering problems – and within a week, I was solemnly sitting in an oversized leath-er chair in a spacious, well-lit room, awaiting an eye doctor’s appointment to determine what was wrong with me. The doctor, a stern, middle-aged wom-an, swept me into the exam area where my eyes were tested and prodded; at the conclusion of the assessment, she led me into a darker, drabber room, a

room I would later exit an altered per-son. Opening a large, mysterious book, the doctor turned to an illustrated page filled with rows of cartoon animals. “Tell me the color of each of these mon-keys,” she commanded in the polite but serious tone that all doctors seem to possess. Just as a chess player smirks when it is his turn after realizing a grave mistake his contestant made, the doctor portrayed a noticeable smugness on her face as I listed the color of each image. Saying nothing, she tacitly strode out of the glum room, quickly returning with my mother, who had been waiting in a separate area. The next words she uttered shook my existence, shaped my future: “Adam is color blind.” An explosion immediately ensued in my head: Did I do anything to cause this problem? Is there any way to fix it? What do I see compared to oth-ers? What am I missing in my vision? As my hyperactive, paranoid mind switched on, I began silently but franti-cally searching for explanations, ways that this diagnosis could not be true; however, deep down, I sadly knew that it must be factual, for it would explain so many instances of not understanding the color coding in school maps or not being able to tell green and red apart during Christmas time. A limitation for my future and an imperfection of my body, this grim prognosis was a rope that swiftly began suffocating me, a hammer to shatter my mirror, a prison to incarcerate my ambitions. As the doctor continued to speak, my cognizance ceased as all I heard was a distant mumbling, like trying to under-stand words voiced at the other end of a long, dark tunnel. Sickeningly, the doc-tor conversed in a distinctly laid back manner, as if she had reported the same news one thousand times before, as if it did not matter to her that I could not distinguish certain colors. I felt my fin-gers turn numb as I caught a few of her disgustingly nonchalant remarks: “It is really not that big of a deal; he just will not be able to become a pilot or a fireman. There are other boys out there

like him.” But what if I had wanted to become a pilot or a fireman; how could she know? The truth was that I yearned to be neither; it was the limitation of my potential that shook my world the most. After being supportively in-formed by adults for the entirety of my life that I could “accomplish anything I set my mind to,” I honestly believed that my future would be a great forest, endlessly bountiful. However, when the news of my color blindness came, every tree of my forest was mercilessly hacked to the ground, leaving a deci-mated landscape of doubt and despair. Interestingly, my depression pro-gressed in phases: in the first year or two following the diagnosis, I viewed the disability as an extreme annoyance. Every waking moment, it seemed that someone in my family would approach me, prying me for details of what I could and could not see, pointing to random objects as spontaneous tests of my abilities. Clenching my fists, I would answer the demands with indif-ference: Why does this have to be such a big deal, anyway? Even more irritating were the dinner gatherings with family friends, where my color blindness was a favorite topic of discussion. Like an abnormal zoo animal, I was gawked at with curious eyes as I struggled to complete Internet color blindness tests presented to me; inevitably, I would fail, and the onlookers would attain a look of satisfaction – their zoo animal had performed its repulsive trick. Be-sides frustrating me, these early experi-ences catalyzed within me an odd feel-ing, an intuition that this problem was more intrusive and personal than I had originally imagined. From that point onward, I kept within me the entirety of my condition with religious secrecy, away from inconsiderate outsiders; the fallen trees of my decimated forest rot-ted away, yielding an empty field of only dirt as my perception of the dis-ability became increasingly graven. As all semblances of life vacated my mental forest, my low point came. On a rainy Saturday morning during

the sixth grade after completing “The Giver,” one fact clung to my thoughts: the mindless, ordinary people in the story are all completely color blind. I am no better than them and their dull, monotonous demeanor; I too must be as fatally flawed as they are because we share the same condition! In this mo-ment, I felt utterly worthless, a child in the mall hopelessly searching for an unseen parent lost within a massive crowd, a master artist with no hands. Jealousy burned white-hot in my brain. Why am I not able to see all of the col-ors while others can? What had I done to deserve my condemnation never to even glimpse the world in full color? Victimizing myself, I often spent hours during this time holed up under my covers, pitying my situation while wondering what cruel God would spend effort to create someone with such a pronounced defect, such a basic inability. To no avail, I even endeav-ored to “cure” myself of the impair-ment by staring at different-colored papers for extended periods while desperately attempting to distinguish between them; I never succeeded. A defensiveness I gained about my secret impairment: if anyone noticed my odd behavior around colors when I played board games or completed light-based science labs, I would adamantly deny any suggestion that I was color blind, retorting that I simply “did not feel well” that day. Unavoidably, the sad remains of my obliterated forest baked under the scorching sun until the sur-face of the soil became cracked and flat: my once lush landscape had dried into a hostile and impotent desert as hopelessness drenched my thoughts and actions. I remained in the thick of this psy-chological nadir for approximately four years; like an unruly virus, nega-tive thoughts toward my color blind-ness appeared suddenly, mostly while I was stressed, for the duration of this stage. During a youth group trip to Is-rael, I happened to be trapped in the middle of one of these depressions while on a visit to the arid landscape of the Middle East. I opened my eyes to the desert: for miles it stretched, a vast wasteland of unfertile, tan dirt in unison with a cloudless, pale blue sky;

true silent openness greeted my vision. The most peculiar aspect of this empti-ness was its only visible inhabitant: a large pomegranate tree. As out of place as an overall-adorning farmer wander-ing the urban streets of New York City, the healthy plant stood directly in the middle of the unyielding desolation, a defiant trunk in the midst of nothing-ness. Challenging the adverse condi-tions of its environment, this tree was able not only to survive but to flourish, bearing countless supple pomegranate fruits that dangled from the limbs like lights on a Christmas tree. Thinking spasmodically, I could not help but compare my morose mental state to the despondent desert: its in-fecund earth begged for life-enabling water like I begged for answers to my endless inquiries. However, unlike the actual desert, my inner wasteland sadly existed without a pomegranate tree to defy the bleakness, to bring purpose to the aberration. I yearned for something to save me from my own mind. Later that day on the trip, I made a regrettable error by misjudging the color of several fruits while in the pres-ence of others; the news of my “color blindness” spread like wildfire as I felt stabs of embarrassment penetrate my core. Believing that all I would gain that day was a litany of questions prob-ing the details of my condition, I was surprised to find a friend named Jonah approach me while I was washing my hands – I wash my hands obsessively when I am nervous – and ask an unex-pected question: “Adam, are you color blind?” “No, no I am not!” I frantically fibbed, pointlessly trying to conceal my secret from outside minds. From the reproachful look in his eyes, I im-mediately realized that he was aware of my deceit. “I do not have much to say to you; just know that the first step to understanding is acceptance,” he in-formed me in a clear, honest tone. The first step to understanding is accep-tance. These humble words repeatedly rung through my troubled brain like the endless static of a broken television. As the following days ran together like chalk art on a rainy day, this simple phrase remained constant, an immobile whisper in my head. One week later, while I relaxed under the hot water of a

shower, the full magnitude of this truth became clear in my mind like a picture in developing fluid abruptly sharpens into a beautiful image. I was born color blind, and I will eventually die color blind. Why waste my limited life over something congenital and impossible to change? Why not instead make the most of my situation? With these questions, I felt something shift in my head, a worn out negative paradigm begin to fade out; my own hardy pomegranate tree sampling burst through the crusty surface of my des-ert, confronting the desolation, beck-oning optimism. Herein followed the next stage of my perceptions: I became willing to look past my color blindness to appreciate the opportunities that I do have. For example, instead of brooding idly after recognizing a color misjudg-ment I made while attempting to se-lect matching clothing, I immediately forced the frustration out of my mind and chose a different shirt, reminding myself that minor errors were inevi-table, normal aspects of my life. With each passing experience, as I grew in-creasingly independent of my negative thoughts, my pomegranate plant grew and strengthened from a small seedling to a formidably sized young tree, retali-ating against the grim conditions of its originally inhospitable environment. Just as a pomegranate tree will en-large and mature as time passes, so too did my relationship with color blind-ness alter as I collected more life ex-periences. Interestingly, I am now able to realize that this process is still taking place to this moment: Within the most recent months, I again made an error in color judgment, this time in math-ematics class. Just like the experience in the desert, my blunder was caught, this time by the girl who sat next to me; when she asked me the same question as Jonah had months before (“Adam, are you color blind?”) in a sincere voice, I remained silent, contemplating my answer for what seemed an eternity. Finally, I took the plunge into the bot-tomless unknown, responding for the first time with a solemn, “Yes.” “That’s kind of cool,” she replied softly, her eyes twinkling. My pomegranate tree bore its first fruit.

54 The Great Perhaps

The 2014 Literary Magazine is Dedicated to

Editor: Olivia NastalaAssistant Editor: Seis StevesCopy Editors: Jacob Miller & Paige Livingston LopezLayout & Copy Editorial Team: Gaby Caliendo, Carson Kessler, Emma Reford, Rachel Vaughan

Selection Committee: Katharine Clement, Natalie Curran, Ashley Drengler, Inma Escalante, Jasmine Liu-Zarzuela, Juan Lopera, Isabella Meador, Dyana Martinez, Trina Navarro, Andrea Sala, Alexia Salinga-ros, Sydney Watt

Advisors: Amy Williams-Eddy & Megan Soukup

Courtney Westermanwho inpires each student to find his or her own great perhaps through

her love of teaching and appreciation for the English language.

Staff:

Colophon:Volume 48 of The Walrus was created by the staff and teacher advisor at Saint Mary’s Hall, 9401 Starcrest Drive, San Antonio, Texas 78217. 400 copies were printed and distributed at no charge to students, fac-ulty, staff, and parents on May 21, 2014.

In this magazine, Times New Roman font was used throughout for copy, TypewriterT was used for headlines, and Ariel was used for page numbers and art credits. Thompson Print Solutions printed the maga-zine at 5818 Rocky Point Drive, San Antonio, Texas 78249. Maggie Thorschmidt was the representative who worked with the staff and editors to bring the magazine to completion. Programs used included Microsoft Word, Photoshop CS5, and InDesign CS5. Equipment in-cluded several HP computers, and a Dell color laser printer.

Special Thanks to:Teri Marshall, Jonathan Eades, Bob Windham, Brent Spicer, Jeff He-bert, Bethany Prestigiacomo, Carol Parker Mittal, Ralph Howell, Dyan Green, Breanne Hicks, Christian Cicoria, Courtney Westerman, Randy Lee, Mack Magill, Mike Harriman, Chris Harriman, Glenn Guerra, Shangruti Desai, and SMH security

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Documents

The Walrus 2014, Vol. 48 Saint Mary’s Hall, San Antonio ... · Sydney Watt Poem Lost Sole 27 Juan Lopera Poem Reflections on a Mirror 28 Jenna Thomas Digital Photograph Vanity 28-29