Untitled - St. Pius X Catholic High School

Cover Bumpin’ by Keith Rosemond ‘04
2 Red Dress by Corey Hartman ‘04
3 Hibiscus by Michelle Brutto ‘04
5 Protection by Gabrielle Cooper ‘05
7 Apple of My Eye by Lauren Elliot
8 City Still Life by Corey Hartman ‘04
11 Marilyn Teapot by Kaitlin Horlander ‘04
14 Still Life by Robin Kempf ‘04
15 Honey Pot by Danielle Brutto ‘06
16 Robin’s Egg by Katie Foltz ‘04
17 Prom Magic by Christine Collins ‘04
18 Slip The Moonlight... by Charlie Key ‘05
19 Don’t Get Caught... by Joe Pitt ‘04
20 Blue Vase by Steven Orr ‘05
22 Art Collage by Steven Orr ‘05
30 Chillin’ by Keith Rosemond ‘04
30 Moonlit Night by Sarah Watson ‘07
31 Boy In My Class by Alexandra Becker ‘07
33 Late Night Chats by Nina Chamberlin ‘05
34 Blue Dock by Emily E. Weyant ‘05
34 Alone At Heart by Kayte Henderson ‘06
35 Me by Steven Orr ‘05
37 Untitled 22 by Katherine Paris ‘05
38 Spring Flowers by Danielle Arellano ‘05
41 Buddha In The Garden
by Pierre Watson ‘05
42 The Tree Of Life by Caroline Hust ‘06
45 Carpe Diem Staff by Keith Rosemond ‘04
2 Life by Kate Tooher ‘06
3 Fade by Christine Collins ‘04
4 Questions by Megan Kisling ‘06
5 The Noise Within by Jenny Tooher ‘06
6 The Door Would Not Open
by Pamela Kennedy ‘06
8 I Be Me by Katherine D. Smith ‘04
12 Footprints by Katie Boshinski ‘05
12 A Response to Meng Chiao’s 2nd Autumn
Night by Pamela Kennedy ‘06
15 I Feel Alienated by Lauren Lightfoot ‘06
16 Lost by Ally Rakoczy ‘06
17 A Soldier’s Thought by Linda Pirkl ‘05
18 A Still Whisper by Katherine D. Smith
19 Hiding from Motivation
by Cameron McAllister ‘05
21 Printed Musings by Laura deGive ‘06
22 Broken Wings by Gabrielle Cooper ‘05
23 From the Heart by Hugh Kinsel ‘06
1 Not As Good... by Sarah Green ‘04
3 California Sunset by Lauren Tee ‘05
6 The House on Kodak Hill
by Ashley Brouillard ‘07
9 Castro’s Daisy by Meghan Castaldo ‘05
10 Patio Umbrellas by Alyssa DeHayes ‘05
13 Fall Leaves... by Alyssa DeHayes ‘05
16 Chasing the Sun by Danielle Brutto ‘06
18 Funky Cold Madeena
by Daniel Sweeney ‘05
24 America’s Pasttime by Mark Hoban ‘06
26 Snake Eyes by Danielle Brutto ‘06
26 Don’t Blink by Emily E. Weyant ‘05
27 Heaven’s Trail by Michael Holcomb ‘06
28 Afternoon Sun... by MaryJo Terrill ‘05
28 A New Horizon by Sarah Maguire ‘04
29 Red by Frances Bourgeois ‘05
32 The Happy Monarch
by Stephanie Bumgarner ‘04
38 Where You Go When Life Starts to Fade
Away by Christian Lee ‘04
39 Warner Hamilton Wolf
by Lauren Walther ‘04
40 Broken Down Palace by Alyssa DeHayes ‘05
43 Marquis by Chris Milich ‘07
43 Soldier Remembrance by Lauren Tee ‘05
10 The Place I Love by Ashley Weeks ‘05
13 Prospect by Dan Brubaker ‘06
24 The Camera by Michael Angulo ‘05
27 The Humiliation of Being Alone
by Dan Brubaker ‘06
29 Open Road by Laura deGive ‘06
32 Runaway Star by Joan Biebel ‘04
38 Equilibrium by John Perk ‘04
26 The Cellist by Danny Echevarria ‘04
28 The Secrets by Joey Grone ‘06
30 The Flying Dog by Louis Jones ‘06
32 I Dreamed I Was A Butterfly
by Nick Brubaker ‘04
34 Painting by Christine Collins ‘04
34 Thunder by Christine Collins ‘04
35 The Shell Station by Michelle Neek ‘07
36 So I Was Walking by Charlie Key ‘05
40 The Noise by Mackenzie Ricker ‘06
40 Hope by John McNabb ‘07
“Art is not the application
of a canon of beauty but what
the instinct and the brain can
conceive beyond any canon.”
-Pablo Picasso
St. Pius X Catholic High School
2674 Johnson Road, N.E.
Atlanta, GA 30345-1799

One life. Many parts.
Overall, we have many starts.
New beginnings and old ends.
New acquaintances, and old friends.
All around us, there are watchful eyes,
That are always searching for where the truth lies.
But what is life, if not the truth?
And why do we live if not for this truth?
This truth that stays and will never leave,
Gets lost in the moment of trying to achieve.
We look to the future and forget our present.
Which means we never live, and always regret.
The present is all we can affect at this time,
So we must only put now in the front of our mind.
Life is short and unknown in the end.
But all we can do is the best that we can.
When the end truly comes, and it’s your time to leave,
Make sure you can say that you were pleased.
White
Feathers
Drift along,
A warming breeze.
They softly dance ‘round,
As they carry their dreams.
Throughout the chilled winter’s night,
The mooncast shadows stretch black hands
And snatch the young illusions with haste.
Now with fallen feathers, they’ve all but flight.

One day I was walking upon a hill, when
A strange being came to me,
Robed in wind and swirling clouds.
He said, “Why do you continue to love,
even when it hurts?”
And I could not answer him,
For the memory of love was too much to bear.
A second being, this time clad in fire,
Came to me saying,
“Your world has riches and yet thousands starve,
Why?”
Again I could not answer,
The pain of a starved child clenching my stomach
Until a sob broke free.
The third being approached me,
Wearing a dress of sparkling waves and
Raindrops woven into her hair.
She gazed at me, large eyes full
Of silent tears and asked,
“Why has the world lost its innocence?”
And the words caught in my throat,
Thinking of an apple that never existed,
And wondering where the time had flown to
The last being came to me,
An earthen robe about her regal shoulders,
And a vine holding back her wild hair.
She simply looked at me – through me –
And I knew the question she was asking:
“Why does no one speak to their heart?”
I hung my head in shame,
Not wanting to meet the four pairs of jewel-bright eyes.
Not one of their questions could I answer,
For humanity itself rested on my shoulders.
There I stood on the hill,
Suddenly very much alone.
It was a constant buzzing.
Not loud and obnoxious,
Not long and drawn out,
Not high pitched or deadly,
But not going away.
I could not find the key to
make It stop.
Was this noise telling me to
take a chance?
Or to stop taking chances?
Was It saying face evil?
Or hide beneath the
comfort of my body?
Was It screaming to
challenge my attitude?
Or let my attitude define
who I am?
I couldn’t make It stop,
But I knew I would miss It
when It was gone.
It was the world to me,
And I the world to It .
The buzzing had become
my home,
My sanctuary,
Where I could turn to find
security,
A pattern that would not
shift.
If my ear was aware,
I would find that same
constant buzzing:
Not loud, not obnoxious,
Reaching into the depth of
my mind.

The door would not open. Why not, he wondered grabbing the handle again in the dark,
and tugging once more. Perfect, he thought, throwing up his hands in frustration and turning
away. Sure, perseverance was a great thing - that’s all he had ever heard as a child. Practice
makes perfect… if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, again – of course, of course. But opening
a door? How simple! And yet how hard it was now. The door was locked. Fate is so cruel, he
thought miserably, scuffing his feet against the floor.
Then, he heard it, a faint clink.
Immediately he dropped to his knees, furiously scrabbling around in the dark. His hands
found something small, metal, and cold: a key…
Standing, he held the key triumphantly and-
- suddenly realized that, in the dark, he couldn’t find the door.

I be me…
I want to live in a house somewhere
far away.
I want
in a field
one day,
nowhere.
to play
I want
to dance
with the wind
somehow
in a time,
not now.
I want
to be somebody
what they always
say
is
wrong.
I want to dream someday
what THEY
said was gone.
I want to do someday
whatever I feel.
I wish to feel one day
however
I am. To
whisper the hushed notes
of my SOUL
to the plump ear of society.
I will, I am, I do.
I dream, I wish, I hope.
I feel,
but only seem.
I be me.

here exists a place in the heart of Middle
Georgia that’s not quite like any other. As
the name of its famed restaurant implies,
the town of Juliette is a mere whistle stop on the
Georgia railroad. If you ever get a chance to visit,
the town still looks as it did one hundred years ago.
For me, the place provides a look into my heritage
because my mother
grew up in a nearby
town. Furthermore,
the beautiful lake and
countryside surrounding
Juliette bring a sense of
peace and simplicity that
is easily lost in a complex
world.
ne visit and you
would agree
that Juliette is the
quintessential rural town
of the Old South. When
the town’s gristmill closed
in 1957, the majority
of those living in the
sprawling community
packed up and headed
elsewhere for work. This
rapid exit left a weary
ghost town, subject to
little urban development.
The old buildings still
stand, some slightly
crooked in the most
perfect way. They seem
to praise their builder, not
for his perfection, but for
the piece of himself left within the structure. Several
of the older homes were built around the town’s
creation right after the War of Northern Aggression.
Each of these houses is a book filled with history and
stories just waiting to be read. Open the door and
discover for the first time what has been discovered
a hundred times before. The ancient floor squeaks
softly as you taste the wooden scent. One can only
imagine the lives such old walls have watched. As
for businesses, the town’s first General Store is the
now highly publicized “Whistlestop Café.” Here you
are greeted by a friendly smile that you’ve known
forever, even though you’ve never met before. As
for the food, the smell of chicken cooking and green
tomatoes frying permeate the air, and, boy, are you
glad you came.
u l i e t t e ’ s
connection to
me is deeper
than just the grandeur
of the buildings that
still stand and the food
that’s cooked. I feel that
I have roots in that area
where my mother was
raised and the greatest
appeal is having family
history there. Life was
much the same in all of
the small old Georgia
towns; only Juliette was
preserved. As a onemill
town, the residents
lived and died by the
success of their mill. The
old concrete skeleton is
all that’s left. As for my
mother’s childhood,
she often talks about
all the chores she was
expected to do and
how little I have to do
in comparison. She has
also said that extremely
strong bonds were
forged between the people of the community
and that everyone helped in the rearing of a child.
Being raised in a small town caused children to
grow up a lot faster but slower at the same time.
With so much work to be done, even the youngest
child had responsibilities with few distractions, and
family ties were very strong. In the center of Juliette
stands a simple white church. Its location reflects
its importance to the community. The people
here relied heavily on their faith and camaraderie,
bringing a sense of unity to the town.
ne final aspect that sets Juliette apart from
most other places is the wildlife that inhabits
it. The town and her structures were built
into nature, not the other way around. You’d
be surprised how close heaven is when you’re
sitting in a rocking chair on an old, oak porch just
watching the Ocmulgee pass you by. It’s a place
where there is a cool autumn breeze all summer
long, and all your worries come down to what’s for
dinner. Be careful though, for if you stay too long
you might question ever going back to a complex
callous society. Maybe the world is supposed to be
a simple place after all.
he town of Juliette is a celebration of
everything that could be perfect with our
world. To visit is to cherish the past, correct
the present, and plan the future. Take a walk
around the square, and smell the grease cooking
while a breeze soothes body and soul. Maybe one
afternoon you will sit by Lake Juliette when a black
column of smoke puffing from a northbound freight
whistles by. In a place like Juliette we can appreciate
family heritage and a good foundation. Finally, it’s
by experiencing nature that one can reflect and
come to an inner peace. Juliette embraces all of
these things and provides a safe haven for all who
come to her. I love her.

I am searching for a purpose,
In this life about me now.
I am searching for a lot in life,
But I just don’t know how.
The world is so wide,
And the future I cannot see.
How can I leave my footprints?
I am only me.
Longfellow talked of footprints,
Reminders in the sand,
But I don’t think that I can make
them;
The waves are rather grand.
One wave can wash away,
A thousand years or more,
So how will anyone remember,
That I was on this shore?
I know the years go onward.
They stretch on out of view,
Maybe I’ll find my purpose,
And perhaps leave footprints too.
The future worries me. Relentlessly hanging over my eyes, and still
I can’t observe it. I can’t see what is to come until it arrives. My left eye
remains closed behind a sweaty palm, while my right peers anxiously
through trembling fingers.
Surely, where I’ve been will affect where I’m going. This philosophy
fettered my mind. The present is just a moment, and the future is
diminishing, like in a giant hourglass. I am trapped inside fending off of the
sand, until I drown in my own debris.
Just as the present becomes set in the past, the hazy future is reduced
to elixir. The elixir of life. Opportunity. Prospect. My present is troubled,
and now my past is as well.
While I fumbled in fear around my hardened past, I unknowingly spilt
my elixir. I was knee deep in life, life that I wasn’t ready to live. My future
was killing my ignorant self. Only nothing could save me now.
I am confused. A miniature ray of light, greater than I, creeps into my
bitter cage. It washes over my mouth, my nose, and my eyes. Epiphany
slaps across my eyes. I was confused, but at least for now the future is clear.
I could have avoided all that trouble if I had remembered to forget. Filled
with warmth, my mind smiles up to the heavens, where it will remain until
night grabs it yet again.

I feel alienated
Cut off from
Myself
You are never alone
Never completely cut off
Always surrounded by nameless places
And blank, staring faces
Never enough time to sit and think,
To reflect
To feel loneliness
For without prior experience in loneliness
You don’t know what it means to be,
Just to be.
Be without reason
Without fear of criticism
Without having to shroud yourself in mystery
for fear of recognition
Never feeling comfortable enough to be.
To be genuine
To be you
To be me.
Halfway around the world,
The face of the autumn moon shimmers.
Vivacious, energy of growth abounds.
Brief rains lull the day’s population to dreams,
The wind is soft and cool on my skin.
On the faded grass, a mortal image of God:
Fresh faith circulating in my heart.
Hopeful thoughts seeking reality eagerly:
I listen to them, and am pleased.
The pine tree thriving, reaching upwards loftily,
Rustles and echoes like a symphony masterfully created.

The stars are not out tonight
The mood glows dull
Slung low in the sky
It is a foolish thing to waste
The mysteries
Of the night
It is a tragedy to lose
The one thing you thought
Might begin
That revolution
Within your heart
It is crazy to lose
A golden chance
Yet a chance is all
That remains
For we are built
On hopes
And restless dreams
So weak are the hearts of man
What is destined to be?
What is the price to replace the stars
Into their darkened canopy?
It is far more than I can afford
Yet loan me your heart
And perhaps we can
Find a way
To mend the holes
That scar the night
Let me wish
Let me cry
Let yourself return to me
To end what never began
To begin a different ending
To finish the story
Under the stars
O’ victory, sweet victory
Cry the brave men tonight
As mightily they try to fight
For the growing, longing victory.
Freely flows blood’s redness
Staining all the ground
The howl of death’s hound
Shatters the souls of the young and old.
By sword and arrow
Victims fall about
And their souls take a rout
Guided by the angels of death.
And centuries later
Casualties of bomb and shell
Follow the same course of hell
Where disease kills the most.
How cruel we are!
With all the blood shed
‘Till our hands run red
As we sit in awe.
But be warned!
Death comes to all
For even the mighty
Will one day fall.

To manipulate time’s shadow,
To pound a dream’s vein
And soil ethereal beauty,
To slip a solitary thought
Into the stream of a bound river,
To tongue paradise’s mist
In a sleeping forest,
To drink a delirious symphony,
To cheek a luscious vision,
A river scent,
Sound,
Storm.
A still whisper
In the garden of rhythm’s eternity…
Such must be the work of man.
For that which is true
And that which is dream
Reality is forever what you make it
What is masked is not from sight
What is shown is not what is seen
What is far is not out of reach
For what is given can be doubled
What is voice can be action
The limit not stone nor mortar
The limit the person
The will to climb
The Higher, The Higher
For where do I stop
Relent and be struck
The Higher, The Higher
For all is clear
The Higher, The Higher
For what is unseen is not unnoticed
The Higher shall I go!

In my room rest three sets of bookshelves,
tall, wooden, and wonderful.
Secret treasures reside there in the form of
knickknacks from around the world,
snapshots of moments saved
from a death of drowning in the seas of time,
and, most magnificent, with their spines cracked
from pages turned too many times to count,
with covers of the most brilliant hue
and of the most striking images,
with potential even yet untapped,
the books.
Like a small child longing to be held, they await my touch,
and the moment when they can spring to life,
and carry me around the world
and to the limits of my imagination.
Greedily, I reach for one, and the book
Waits expectantly, knowing its story will soon be told.
But my hand pauses and inches away from the passion
bound in the pages of the treasured book.
A curious question has penetrated my mind,
and it nags incessantly, yearning for a voice.
With a sigh, my hand still poised to grasp the
volume, I allow the question a moment to speak.
Do you know, it begins, without a shadow of a doubt,
that you can truly comprehend what is in that book?
Of course I can, I scoff.
Are you so sure? The question persists quietly.
Can you read about the Grand Canyon
and comprehend its awesome magnitude
without standing on the edge of the canyon wall?
I turn that over carefully in my mind.
Go, it urges, do not live behind a shield of books
but live through your own eyes.
My hand drops silently to rest at my side.
And the moral of my ode is this:
The passion of an author seeing a vision and living a dream
Is beautiful in its own splendor but cannot replace
The passion of the experience itself.

Driving to school,
Under loads of stress,
Thousands of contiguous cars,
O, the madness.
I’ve lost myself again
Wandering through my cement valley
Fluorescent stars guide my beaten path
Broken plaster angels watch over me
A hazy fog settles over my unforgiving asphalt
Turning to the man next to me I see into his eyes
His bloodshot eyes match the red sun looming in the distance
Soft shots of light pierce the fog and light my metal frame prison
My glass worked stars shudder and fade from view
Sounds of life fill my ears; pushing a cry of help from my mouth
My cracked path leads me from the valley
My valley of broken souls
Broken people
I lose my footing within my confining home
As the world opens up to new expanse
I fall against my last support
Large eyes staring back into mine
I open my wounded heart
And try to fly my haven from harm
With my
Encumbered by school all day,
Satiated with info and theory,
Just to forget it all,
O, the irony.
Activities after school,
Create in us the part,
That others know us for,
O, our mark.
The enigmatic chaos takes a toll,
On the loved ones that we find,
We forget to show our love,
O, the blind.
But if we stop for a moment,
Like little ones often do,
And offer those close to us
A winsome hug and an “I love you”…
O, the union, O, the connection,
O, the natural of which we are a part,
O, the truth, O, the freedom,
O, the love deep in the heart.
Broken
Wings

he light shone through a the dimly lit shop
and fell perfectly on the old rolleiflex lying on
the counter. Robert gazed at the camera.
He closed his eyes and tried to hold back the
memories that flooded his consciousness. Robert
saw the pictures he had taken with the camera
clearly, as if they too were lying on the counter.
He remembered the protests he had covered for
the local paper. He could still hear the dogs bark
as the police unleashed them on the crowd of
demonstrators. He felt the thud of the clubs as they
came down on the protesters’ heads. Capturing it
all through his photographic lens, Robert had felt
even closer to the chaos.
here had been urgency back then, a feeling
that life hinged on whether or not he got
the story out through his pictures. He felt
it was his duty to be there when the riots broke
out, or when a package bomb devastated another
all-black church. Robert had been an activist, an
idealistic youth. Working for a newspaper in Mobile,
he had covered a society at the height of tension.
He was sure something was about to give way, and
he wanted to be up front with his camera when it
did.
obert didn’t care about the money or the
notoriety, as long as the stories he covered
got out. But when a large media company
in Atlanta bought the paper, Robert was asked to
leave. He felt betrayed. Everything he had learned
about duty seemed fickle and immature now.
Forced to find another job, he took a position as an
insurance broker in the downtown area. Slowly,
the sense of purpose that had inspired his youth
faded into his new life. The inspiration of ideals
seeped out of Robert as time gradually evaporated
intent. He didn’t care about changing the world
anymore, and the camera was an old, forgotten
friend. He didn’t care about anything anymore, or
so he thought.
obert closed his eyes and tried to forget.
Just then, the attendant behind the counter
appeared. He had slick, black hair, a sharp
nose, and wore thick-rimmed glasses that seemed
to enlarge his eyes. Taking one look at Robert’s
camera, his eyes lit up as if he saw a treasure chest
lying on the counter. The man gently picked up
the black apparatus and looked at Robert with the
inquisitive eyes of an appraiser.
“Where did you get this?” the man asked, a
hint of suppressed emotion revealed in his voice.
“It was a present from my parents,” Robert
replied, irritated and perplexed by the man’s interest
in his camera. “It was used then, so it must be pretty
old.”
“Oh, why yes. This camera is from Kodak’s
1910 series. I’ve only seen maybe two others like
it,” the man replied, rotating the
camera gently in his hand and
taking notice of the dents and
marks on the camera’s body. He
mumbled quietly to himself in
concern, as if the camera had been
an abused child. “It’s a shame
yours is in such poor condition, or
else you might’ve been able to get
some more use out of it.”
“I just want it cleaned,” Robert
said, wondering to himself why
he hadn’t used the camera in so
long. No time, he thought. Ever
since leaving the paper, Robert had
been bogged down at his new
job with the insurance company.
The job paid twice as much as
the newspaper, but money seemed to have lost
its value with Robert. He missed the days when
ideals meant more profit. He loved the sensation
of believing. He had never been the same since
he stopped taking pictures. Something was missing
from his life, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
ìI’m sorry sir, but there is nothing I can do for
you here. We stopped carrying the parts you need
a long time ago,” the man said. His voice was hard
and there was a growing sense of accusation. “It’s
a shame you waited ‘til now to get it looked at.”
obert felt a pang of regret and helplessness,
as if he had chosen not to save a friend’s life.
“You mean you can’t fix it?” he asked.
But the attendant did not answer. He only
turned the camera over one last time before placing
it down and walking to the back of the shop.
Robert did not know what to say. He
thought the camera would be an easy fix, only
needing a few parts. Robert had loved this camera
in his youth, and all he had wanted was to feel that
same love again. But he
had waited too long to
save his old friend. The
world had progressed
and the camera was
now an outdated model,
something to be encased
in a museum. Robert gently lifted the camera from
the counter. He looked over with caring, youthful
eyes. Every bump and scratch on the body was felt
in Robert’s heart. The camera had once been an
extension of Robert’s life and dreams. It had been
his outlet, a medium for his radical adolescence.
But it was all over now, he thought. There would
be no revisiting of his past, no recalling of a better
time.
ejected, Robert left the camera shop and
walked down a narrow street that emptied
onto the piers. The cool sea breeze and
the light sunshine did not wake him from his
disheartened trance. “Why did I wait so long?” he
asked himself over and over. Life had surely gotten
in Robert’s way. But now the only life he wanted
was the one he would never be able to return to,
even if the camera had worked.
ust then, a strong rush of wind hit Robert
from behind, knocking him to the ground.
Robert’s head hit the curb hard and he
heard a muted snap, as if a whip had been cracked
nearby. He lay face down on the hard cement, blood
trickling from his nose, unable to comprehend what
had happened. Slowly he began to sit up, holding
his throbbing head with one hand and his bleeding
nose in the other. Then, he felt his side where the
camera had been swinging a second before. There
was nothing there now. Robert snapped back into
reality, jumped to his feet and looked around. He
immediately saw a brown-haired man carrying the
camera dart into a side street. The pain in his head
dissipated. His only thought was for his useless
camera.
e ran as fast as he could after the man.
Dashing into the darkened side street, he
began to gain on the thief. Trashcans and
parked cars lined the narrow road. The man, not
realizing that he was now the prey, had let Robert
come within feet. But Robert did not stop, his
mind blinded with pictures of abusive police and
unfeeling batons. Robert leaped at the man holding
the camera, and they came crashing down on a set
of trashcans.
obert could hear
the dogs barking
and the sirens
screaming. He grabbed
the man by the collar and
punched him swiftly across
the face. Then, he jumped on the man’s stomach
and punched him again. The man could not defend
himself against Robert’s new intent. Robert was
punching for his wasted life, for his lost ideals, and
for his stolen camera. Blood splattered onto Robert’s
shirt and poured out onto the street, forming a dark
red puddle. Robert sat there for what seemed like
hours, beating away at the man’s face.
inally, something snapped. Robert stopped
his fists and realized the man was no longer
moving. Robert stood up, feeling sick and
numb. He looked around in a daze and his eyes fell
upon a black object strewn out in the road. It was
smashed to pieces, almost as bad as the man lying
by the trashcans. Then, Robert recognized it. But
it was too late to save his broken, beloved camera.
Robert fell to the ground, his face in his hands.
Tears streamed down his face and onto the street,
forming a small puddle next to the sea of red.

As fiercer still the snow did fall,
I happened upon Saint Martin’s in the Wall,
I thought, perhaps confession, or maybe bread.
After all, every day’s more cold; every day this soul’s more dead.
Then, I thanked God for every past and present future sin,
Since through the howl of blistering wind,
I heard Spring Concerto’s warming strings.
And forgetting all my winter flings,
I met eyes with the exquisite belle,
You, who so generously lifted me out of hell.
No. It is not enough to merely say we met eyes.
Your stare thawed my frozen blood; it caused my pulse to rise.
I watched you swing and clutch that rounded bow,
The way you sat so sprawled, so low.
Truly, my whole heart did melt and sink to my feet.
Vivaldi could not have dreamt a cellist more replete
With skill or talent, charm or grace,
Or curves from toes to thighs to face.
So, now that the Seasons are all done,
I salute this winter night begun.
How can you say that you must sleep?
This night is brimming with joys to reap.
Please excuse yourself no more; I know the truth.
You are afraid that my aim is to seduce.
A worthy concern, but, kind belle, believe in me.
I am the epitome of a gentleman since age three.
Anyway, movements of the flesh are no more lewd
Than walking next to Rodin’s nudes,
Or placing cellos between your legs,
And bending at their polished heads.
was alone again. It was getting late and the
bar would be closing soon. I sat trying to desperately
fill the vacancy in my heart, which
was so recently occupied. Alcohol only filled
the void temporarily, and would soon be out
of my grasp completely, the only thing that I
could substitute in place of my past relationship
would be a new one.
n between swigs of beer, I recurrently caught
the eyes of the most gorgeous lady I had ever
encountered. Had I been too obvious? No,
for every time
that I gazed
upon her, her
bright eyes
returned the
favor. Was
she possibly
interested in
me, or just
curious as to
why I was so
rudely gawking
at her?
What was she
doing here,
at this hour,
sitting all by
herself? The sight of her fragile figure mixed
with the alcohol brought forth new hope of regaining
what I had lost.
hen, as if on its own accord, apart from
the mind, which had always acted as
its mentor, my revived heart swiftly took
control of my body and I slowly began to meander
towards her barstool. The brain, still desiring
the answers to all its questions, tried to
hold me back. It was too late; I had already
accepted my heart as my new leader. Words
began to gush out of my mouth at her, before
I had given them a second’s thought. Her face
wore an expression of surprise; yet, along with
her astonishment I sensed a hint of amusement.
In the heat of battle, my confused heart surrendered
its power once again to the brain. What
was so amusing?
t was too late, even for my brain, to escape
the upheaval that the heart had so quickly conjured.
For as she raised her glass to her lips,
the glimmer of a jewel was apparent on the finger
that could have been bound only through
marriage.
e s p i t e
b e i n g
slightly
drunk, I was
fully aware of
the bond that
the ring portrayed.
As I
scrambled back
to my stool, I
looked back
with regret on
my decision
to follow my
heart without
first being influenced
by my mind. I took one last glance at the
woman whom my heart had so readily adored.
She sat, whispering something to the bartender
and, between periods of laughter, motioned
towards me. As the bartender’s cold eyes fell
upon me, my own noticed a familiar glint of
gold encompassing a finger common to both
of them. In a final attempt to satisfy my heart,
I chugged down the remaining drops of beer,
and exited the bar with humiliation by my side.

The sound of flowing water;
It echoes in my mind.
A river in the land
That I once left behind.
The land was full of life;
It was my own, my world.
My one love was my land
And seeing beauty unfurled.
There was a place I found,
I went there in my mind.
There, I found the secrets
Of the world and of all time.
I treasured all these secrets,
They were mine and mine alone.
I could have shared with others,
But I did not tell, not one.
These secrets were important;
Important, but not known.
A child often knows the best,
Without “intelligence” to hone.
And now, I feel it is too late;
I’ve come to a new land now.
It’s far away from my own,
And I begin to wonder how…
How I might be bale
To spread the secrets of time.
But now, I think I realize:
This land, it is not mine.
t was a cool September day when I first backed my
brand-new shiny red vehicle out of the driveway.
My father, ever-present, was right beside me. The
time had finally come for my first real driving lesson.
I was ecstatic, but Dad’s forehead was crinkled with
worry. Only after I had agreed to wear a helmet
while driving would he agree to even consider
teaching me.
randfather watched as Dad checked
the tightness of my helmet straps for the
umpteenth time. “You know,” he said,
“you never wore that helmet contraption when you
first started driving, Jim. Let them learn from their
mistakes, that’s
what I always
say.”
My dad
looked up at
Grandpa and
frowned. “Well,
that’s nice Dad,
but my baby girl is
going to be safe.
Isn’t that right,
sweetheart?”
“Sure.” I
mumbled.
“Now that
that’s settled,
go ahead and
back out slowly,
sweetie. Make
sure to be careful,” he instructed.
Grandpa waved. “ Have fun, kids!” he
called.
“There you go, nice and slow,” Dad coached,
nodding his approval as I looked both ways before
pulling out of the driveway. At last, I thought to
myself contentedly, the open road. My head was
held high as I cruised down my street, attracting
smiles and occasional worried looks from neighbors
working in their lawns.
uddenly, I found myself at the end of a level
stretch of road and at the beginning of a
hill. I started down before my dad could
stop me. I laughed from sheer joy at the wind in
my face as I zoomed down the hill.
“Slow down!” Dad yelled, panic in his voice.
I savored the moment for a second longer, then
started to break.
xcept, I couldn’t brake. “Dad!” I screamed
frantically. I looked up and saw that the hill
was about to end in a cul-de-sac. I scarcely
had time to brace for the impact before I hit the
curb and went flying, hitting my head on a mailbox
post.
ad was immediately at my side, checking to
make sure that I wasn’t seriously hurt. I sat
up, feeling dazed. He grabbed my shoulders
and looked me in the eye. “ Don’t ever, ever do
that again.
Understand?” I
nodded dumbly.
stood slowly,
holding my
head. Then I saw
it: my sparkling
red treasure was
laying on its back,
wheels spinning
fruitlessly. With
a small gasp,
I knelt beside
it, tears forming
in my eyes.
I looked up at my
dad, squinting
in the harsh
sunlight. “Can
you fix it?” I asked beseechingly.
e squatted beside me, surveying the
wreckage with a well-trained eye. “Yes,”
he said after a pause that seemed like an
eternity, “ but I’m not sure if you’re quite ready for
driving.”
I looked down at my toes, ashamed. “I know
I shouldn’t have gone so fast down the hill, Daddy.
I’m sorry.”
ealizing that I was truly repentant, he smiled.
“I know. Let’s just be a bit more careful,
next time, ok?” I nodded. With that he
stood, hoisting the remnants of my tricycle on his
shoulder. He took my little hand in his strong one,
and together we started the trek back up the hill.

t was in the fall of seventh grade when
the incident happened, an incident that
changed the way my friends would think
of me for years to come. Everyone thought I was
the quiet, nice kid in class, and I pretty much was.
But they didn’t know the other side of me, the side
that would surprise a lot of people. It was a part
of me that didn’t think before it acted, which has
caused me to do some pretty stupid and daring
things. Only once in a great while does it decide
to show up and cause some damage. On that
autumn day, it made a bold move that my friends
and I will never forget. And it all started with a hot
dog.
t was a normal day at St. John Neumann
School. The cafeteria was filled with the
usual buzz of talking. I was sitting with
my good cronies when a rubbery hot dog flopped
right in front of my lunch tray. I just laughed a
little and shoved it across the table for Blaise to
deal with. Suddenly, a random offer came up
from one of my friends, Michael. “Hey Louis, I’ll
give you three bucks if you take that hot dog and
throw it.” “Uh, I’ll think about it. Raise the price
and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I replied.
ichael raised his eyes in surprise,
since he had thought I would
never do anything like that, so he
said, “Alright, I’ll make it six.” After a few moments
of considering the fact that being six dollars richer
sounded pretty good, I answered him, “Good
enough.” We were sitting near the back of the
lunchroom, and there were so many people there
that none of the lunch ladies would see me do it.
So when I took the hot dog from Blaise, everyone’s
eyes lit up with anticipation. I hesitated a little, but
I knew it was worth it, so I tossed the thing over
my right shoulder as hard as I could.
fter I heaved it, I could see
everyone across the table from
me raise their heads and follow
the hot dog with their eyes. I knew that it went
airborne, flying end over end, nearly brushing the
top of the ceiling it went so high. I just sat there
in my chair with my back to the scene, waiting for
the reaction to happen. Finally, after what seemed
like hours, there were a few startled sixth-grader
cries from the front of the cafeteria. I realized that
the hot dog had landed at its final destination.
When I turned around to see whom I had hit, I
just sat there frozen in place; the victim was one
of the lunch ladies. My friends were choking with
laughter when they said that the hot dog had
bounced off a table and smacked the woman right
in the stomach. Her face turned into an incredible
shade of crimson red.
hen, she immediately snatched
the projectile from the floor and
angrily shook it with all her might
high in the air shouting, “Who threw this! Who
threw this! When I find out who did, I’m going to
shove it down his throat!” This made my friends
laugh even harder. “I know it came from over
there!” she said, pointing a finger in our direction.
I was pretty much terrified at that point. She then
walked quickly over to our table, still clenching
the poor little frank in her hand. By the time she
reached us, my friends were silent with smirks
on their faces. “No one leaves until someone
confesses,” she said quietly. I felt everyone at the
table quickly flash their eyes at me. So, after a few
moments, I reluctantly raised my hand and took
the blame; I couldn’t take the pressure.

I dreamed I was a butterfly
And I really was a butterfly
I knew the leaves on the trees
I knew the flowers and bees
And then a toad with tubedrip
toes
Asked me my Religion
And the leaves joined the
breeze
And the flowers fell to weeds
Now I am a Man
And I am afraid
ate sat on the
empty bench
against the side
of her small cruiser. The
boat was tied to the
dock, but Kate could feel
the soft roll of the ocean
as the boat swayed
beneath her feet. The
cool, salty ocean breeze
swept by her like a faint
memory. Kate sighed
and looked up at the
night sky. The heavens
were scattered with the
stars that shone with the
brilliance of thousands.
She singled out as many
constellations as she
could, but in the end she
lost count; lost among
the stars. Looking to the
sky, she couldn’t help
but feel astray. So much
had changed in too
short a period of time.
She was drowning in
a world in which her
existence meant nothing
but five seconds out of
mankind’s history. In
the back of her mind,
Kate knew she shouldn’t
have been on that boat,
but a weird sense of
peace overwhelmed her
as she thought of the
happiness that would
come from leaving it all
behind. But as always,
that same sense of peace
quickly transformed into
fear. Would she really
be happier away from
them, her supposedly
beloved family and
friends? Did she do the right thing, or was she just
further digging herself into despair?
“Beautiful,” a voice said smoothly.
ate looked to her right. A man stood at the
edge of the dock grinning at her. His sapphire
eyes seemed to twinkle like the glittering
stars, full of human and mystery. His jet-black hair
was tangled and he was in desperate need of a
hair cut. He wore a white tee with a black silk shirt
buttoned halfway and black slacks. Kate stared at
him blankly, not sure what to make of the stranger
who seemed to be a bit too friendly for her liking.
She began to feel nervous as sweat beaded down
her forehead.
The man chuckled, then spoke again. “The
stars I mean. Each one shines, some brighter than
others, but all of
them have their time
to be the brightest in
the sky.”
Kate shifted
in her seat feeling
more and more
uncomfortable. She
could still feel his eyes
upon her. Searching
her. Looking for
something. She
looked away, not meeting his eyes.
n a very soft peaceful voice he continued. “You
don’t know how much longer you can take it,
right?
he little girl cries in pain, shedding the blood
of yesterday. But death means nothing to her.
You don’t know how much longer you can go
on feeling the sting of heartache.” He moved to
where she could see him. “Do you, Miss?”
As Kate’s eyes widened, so did the man’s grin.
She gave the man a harsh icy glare and replied in
a frosty tone, “What do you take me for? I’m not
one of those types of girls.” With this comment the
man’s grin turned to a full-fledged smile.
He laughed and replied, “I didn’t think you
would be, Miss. But only you know for sure. Most
fall for the mysterious charm that I hold to be my
personality, but you’re different. Most are happy
but you’re different aren’t you?”
Kate glared at him, still giving him a look of
disgust. How dare he, she thought. He didn’t know
her. He knew nothing of her past or present.
How dare he pass judgment on her. She stood
up and walked away from him to the railing of the
boat. She leaned up against it while mumbling
under her breath, “You wouldn’t understand…
you don’t know me…”
he enigmatic man made no move
towards her but when he spoke, his
voice was harsh and raspy. “How do
you know that Miss? You don’t. I too could feel
the sting of the heart that bleeds for ones who
do not love her. I too could feel the sting of the
heart that bleeds for the ones that do love her.
I too feel the sting of the heart that breaks every
time the ones dearest to me leave.”
Kate was shocked and as every word left
his lips, they hit her
straight at home.
One by one, the
salty tears fell from
her eyes, rolled
down her cheek,
and hit the fabric of
her shirt, darkening
the color.
The man stood up
and spoke once
more, his voice
normal, giving a calming and comforting touch.
“I know that now you cry. Not in anger at me,
but yourself and them. The ones that love you
and the ones that leave.” He started to walk in
the other direction, but then, stopped and spoke
one last time. “Miss, I hope that one day you will
find peace within yourself so that you can go
back to them. So you can go back to him, the
one that made you cry in the first place because
he did not love you the way you wanted him
to.”
he sound of the man’s shoes against the
wood dock echoed in her head. Kate
turned around and looked for him but
he was long gone. She took her seat back on
the bench. Wiping away the tears from her eyes
she noticed a small piece of paper next to her.
She picked it up. On it was writing in black ink,
it read: Remember, every star shines, others just
shine brighter than most. What kind of star will
you be?

Colors swim across
The canvas bathes in thick paint
Creations of art
As we drive down the bumpy and crowded Shallowford Road we come upon the
Shell Station. The smell of gas meets the air with open arms of welcome and adoration.
The huddled masses of Mexicans assimilate together with paint tainted jeans, eyes
set on their American dreams, and torn and splattered white t-shirts that tell a story
all their own.The towering sign high above is a beacon in the water that lets us know
the school is near as our eyes wander down toward our unfinished English homework
that lies gingerly in our laps. As our school approaches, we daydream about the 8 long
periods ahead, the 3:15 bell, and the long awaited walk to the Shell Station. Our citadel.
Pulsing Sounds of rage,
Saturate the sky around,
I jump back in fear.

So I was walking around in my head last night
In between sleep and
Being awake, I said to myself, I said, I said
Hey Charlie, your flowers lack ambition
…My face = !!!
Rebuttal:
So I drooped
Like in the summertime
When I found no bones to hold my body straight
And just melted into my shoes
My cat then took this opportunity to sneak under the blanket and curl up under my calves
And the warmth was like love,
Like how the sun looked today
A too bright yellow on the lake
(me in a fast car
With loud music)
The lake Glinting sharp yellows a mi retina
(La reh-teen-ah! La reh-teen-ah! Arriba arriba!)
And waking up again – 6am
My whole body yearning to wrap up in the blanket again
It is really unkind, teenage eyes aren’t meant to see this
hour of the morning
But reluctantly ill wake up in the middle of the
shower, somewhere between the showerhead and the drain
And school ain’t that bad anyways as long
as you keep your priorities straight and focus on the birds in the parkinglot
And now at midday I’m wiping away clouds from my heavy eyelids
You can hear the cumulus whisper “winter is leaving”
And you know I can’t wait till the sunlight gets back into my bones
spring is coming - I can feel it
(what would you say if we floated again like we did last summer
its been far too long, but you know my feathers have recently been groomed and I think im ready to
pluck starlight outta the sky to carry on my tongue
(for you))
its all so true! But the sky is still blue and grows stronger everyday! The rain comes and gets my hair
all sopping wet – but now the raindrops come slower
(tap tap tap tap tap)
and the sun shining through the petals of some vibrant bloom – my eyes meet your eyes
shimmer – this! This is the season to shimmer
youth take heed
there is no time to waste
so kiss your mothers cheek and rub the dogs head and shake your fathers hand and wink at your
brother and blow a raspberry at your sister and let yourself go
it is a most fufilling daydream, life
I wouldn’t want anything else

eal essence of falsehood exists in that
which is truer than true. That small
existence is what allows verity to be
recognized, for without the yin, there can be no
yang; there must be equilibrium. They are because
the other is. I am because you are; therefore I am
a necessary creation of balance. There is an equal
and opposite force for everything. This force
creates a never-ending chain reaction of causes
and effects.
Humans only realize they are alive because death
has shown itself in a scientifically undeniable way.
In all stories that depict one idea or way of life
being unanimously accepted by humans, there
is always a negative catalyst or some figure or
force that opposes the consensus. In the Bible
this necessary evil is represented by Lucifer.
This represents the basic a well-known balance
between good and evil. Humans will never
see world peace. Humans will never see world
destruction until the Sun destroys the Earth. Even
the most powerful force known to man, nature,
is controlled by balance. All hurricanes have
constraints and inevitably lose strength and return
to calm weather. All fires will eventually go out.
he universe has a pattern in which it grows,
prospers, and eventually terminates itself.
Then it regenerates itself and the cycle
continues infinitely. The nature of the world is
to remain on this repetitive cycle. Humans are
merely a temporary disease to the Earth; an
annoying scratch on the Earth’s back.
here have been many “beings” that have
existed wherever they could survive in
the universe. “Beings” must use time,
which is a device of our own imagination, not
of reality because “beings” are transitory and
meaningless to the universe. Infinite is a concept
that “beings” cannot understand because nothing
we experience or have is infinite.
he universe does not exist, it just is.
“Beings” exist because we are not actually
a part of the cycle of the universe. “Beings”
aren’t actually permanent. “Beings” have souls
or energy trapped inside the measurable limits
of “being”. The planets and stars and moons
and galaxies are all “beings” as well. They are
eventually terminated by the cycle. The universe
is like a wheel on a bicycle, beings latch onto it
and experience the full cycle of the wheel. As the
wheel spins forward, we move forward with it until
we reach the top of the wheel and as the wheel
continues spinning, we are lowered and lowered
until we are crushed underneath the wheel. The
wheel does not lose any speed as we ride to
the top or as we are demolished underneath its
force. The wheel doesn’t even recognize that any
“beings” are on it or even there at all.
have used the example of balance to explain
everything thus far, and this example helps me
to understand one question that I could never
answer. According to the balance that holds all
this together, there must be one constant holding
everything together, a center. Every balance has
a centerpiece that is the Balancer, the foundation,
the origin. The center of a balance creates the
equilibrium. In the center, there is no struggle
to make anything better or worse, there is no
need for help, it is perfect. A wheel has a center,
a radius. The radius has radii that connect it to
almost every part of the wheel. The radius is a
point of balance and equilibrium.
n the balance of all things, in the wheel of
the universe’s cycle, there is the perfect origin
and final destination at which all energy starts
and returns. This brings me to my final point.
Relating the yin and yang theory, for there to be
life there must be death. Therefore, the energy
and spirit that sent life from the perfect origin to
the “beings”, the same equal and opposite force,
must return us to the origin. Life does not end and
then death begins; life transposes into death, and
death is when we cease to exist and truly “are.”
Emily Dickinson describes the soul of “beings” as
“finite infinite.” As a “being,” we are trapped in a
mere existence. When the balance tilts and rates
are once again made equal, the finite part that
makes one a “being” is negated by the origin, and
all that is left is infinite, the infinite the origin has
sacrificed for a soul.

Stomp
upon my hand
and crush the
life it carries
Some people tell me
there’s a noise
within my soul
Neon lights glimmer
with the vision of
a dream
I am no one
but at least I stand alone
The sound of pavement
pounds through my
pulsing veins
I know I’ve got to
leave here or
time will hang me high
There’s no way
a mover like me
can stand life
without the noise.
As we skitter and endure upon this grain,
Is there aspiration for any of that which is sane?
Is there hope of the reality of divine relish?
Or is emptiness the foretell of an afterlife hellish?
Is there rationale for our skitterings and toil?
Or in the end shall we, in rejection, recoil?
Will darkness obliterate our cores as they conclusively fall?
Or shall we enter the Garden, whose lush legends forever
enthrall?
Could a soul be won by hope, and the promise of eternal glory?
To be shrouded in despairing dusk, so crushing and hoary?
What is death to the soul, to hope?
What other behavior can we commit, that of which is not a
grope?
It is all we can do, to hope.

The man with the straw hat,
sitting in the shade of the tree by the ocean.
It’s been bleached almost white.
So many days in the sun can do that to a hat.
With skin like leather, his face is haggard, worn;
a shadow begins to creep across it about five o’clock each evening.
But his eyes are as gentle and warm as the chords that float
from the not-quite in-tune, but always well-meaning
guitar that he brings along.
Sometimes he likes to walk (that old man with the yellow hat).
It’s edges have begun to curl.
So many days of humid sea air can do that to an old, tired hat.
The cuffs of the man’s pants are stiff and dry from the ocean and sun-
Mar y sol- Marisol-
That’s what he would have named his daughter.
Instead he chose the squawking white birds, the gritty sand between his toes.
Maybe he likes it.
They tell him just to bring an umbrella,
One of those nice plastic ones.
That way he won’t have to move with the shadow
of the tree- he’s getting old for that.
But he likes the tree better.
Says the rustling of the palm fronds inspires his music.
The old man hasn’t been by in a while.
One day he left his sun-bleached hat under his tree
(they all say it’s white, but it isn’t)
Maybe the waves took him, swallowed him up on one of his walks.
Maybe the gulls swept him up with their wings- he always said he played for them.
Their Orpheus is gone, and he took his lyre with him.
But sometimes, when a soft breeze moves the leaves of the tree by the ocean,
they hear the refrain of an old song he used to play.
Sometimes they sing along.

Ms. Ruth Beard
Rachel Braham
Mary T. Coulson
Lynn Dadisman
Pat and Jack Daut
Ann Guscio
Sue Hebda
Kay Jackson
Charleen Klister
Margaret and Joseph
LeBlanc
Carol Nee
Chris and Tina Press
Zemoria Rosemond
Barry and Barbara
Rosemond
Janet Rudebeck
The Trujillo Family
Don, Tom, and Jim Wich
Byrne and Counts
Attorney’s at Law Office
Jim and Elizabeth deGive
John and Mary Gallagher
The Harper Family
Marian Huttman
Pat and Mary McNulty
William Pate
Greg and Diane Walther
The Wesche Family
Margaret and Don Wich
Wolverton and Associates
June Bailey
Marian and Marty Braham
Bert and Francine Edwards
Dennis House
Java Monkey
The Mercer Family
Mary Martha Spear
The Tooher Family
Joan Biebel
Teri Birmingham
Juanita Burnett
Andronico Castillo
Cailin Coulson
Marti Daughtery
Anthony Edwards
Carlee Edwards
Nick Fernandez
Elena Ford
Coach J.T. Gilbert
Corey Hartman
Caroline Hust
Ernesto Hylton
Mary V. Jones
Ms. Sally King
Claire J. Miller
Donny Magana
Kevin and Conor McNulty
M.C. Mercer
Milly Mercer
Mrs. Laura O’Connell
Cindy Odum
Katherine D. Smith
Bonnie E. Spark
The Wolf Family
Lauren Walther
Nick Fernandez
Frances Bourgeois
Katie Gallagher
Jenny Tooher
Kaitlin Byrne
Lauren Christie
Laura deGive
Michelle LeBlanc
Amanda Trujillo
Hammy Mercer
Christian Lee
Faren Edwards
Andrea Bailey
Rebecca House
Stephen Huttman
Christopher Hylton
Colleen McNulty
Ashley Wolverton
Janet Rudebeck
Marisa Hebda
Katherine Harper
Keith Rosemond
Melissa Brouillard
Meghan Perez
Rachel Braham Steve Spellman, Principal Sitton and Assoiciates
All folio quotes are taken from The Preface of
Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray