View the 2013 Calliope - Jesuit High School

CALLIOPE 

STAFF 

Johnston Burkhardt Jonathan Llovet 

Harrison Dunlap Ian Morel 

William Emmett Addison Sanford 

ZacH Lannes Nick Simon 

MODERATOR 

jeff wilson

“To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” 

– Joseph Chilton Pearce

CONTENTS 

Title Author Page 

Downward Johnston Burkhardt 1 

Absence Addison Sanford 2 

901 Homeroom Photo 3 

Suited Up Riccardo Muzzetto 4 

The Four and the One Jonathan Llovet 5 

A Certain Slant of Light Johnston Burkhardt 6 

Reve Rouille Addison Sanford 7 

Untitled Johnston Burkhardt 9 

Three Curious Incidents of Love Adam Naquin 10 



The Night Hunter Francis Weller 13 


Utensil Study Johnston Burkhardt 15 


Pooperwocky Manny Armour 17 


Medal Study Johnston Burkhardt 19 

My Wretched Trait Jonathan Llovet 20 

Senorita de Los Muertos John D’Angelo 21 

Father of Peace Harrison Dunlap 22 


Effects Nathan Farley 25 


The Clockwork Man Adrian Prudhomme 27 

Fairy Tale Adam Naquin 28 



Adventure Time John D’Angelo 31 

Werewolf Malachi Hull, Jr. 32 

Stay! Jonathan Llovet 33 


A Pound of Prevention Johnston Burkhardt 35 

This little Chinese dictionary Zach Lannes 36 


The Sword in Her Sleeve Addison Sanford 38 



Who the Victor Francis Weller 41 

Gone are the days . . . Jonathan Nguyen 50 

All is meaningless Jonathan Llovet 51 

Halo Alex Vinet 52 


The Bomb Jonathan Llovet 54 

Feed Your Soul Johnston Burkhardt 55 

Faithful Johnston Burkhardt 56 

God in Strange Places Adam Naquin 57 

Where the Flowers Grow John D’Angelo 58 

The World Spins Underneath Us Nicholas Gobert 59 


COVER New Muse Rising jeff wilson

Downward 

Johnson Burkhardt 

1

Absence 

Addison Sanford 

Transcend? 

Impossible. One can’t comprehend 

the structure; it all fluctuates 

Amok the crucial 

Concentration? 

My brain erodes from effects of writing epithets, 

I’m caught in thoughts every time I recollect 

I don’t know what I’m doing 

And I have no words to speak; 

My thoughts are crumbling before me 

And my mind is feeble, weak – 

It’s an absence of progression 

That will leave my mind to tampering – 

I hope I learn to question it 

In time before its answering. 

Philosophy and Synthesis and Sentience and Emphasis, 

Indifference and Eminence, Dependence and Intentions, 

It’s a limerick, a gimmick, 

Of epistemic intellect and epidemic accidents 

That mimic in the introspect, 

An absence of my comprehension, 

The blank, the empty loss for words, 

A misery of loss of sense; 

An absence that my mind observes, 

I don’t know what I’m doing 

And the words have all been spoken, 

Thoughts have crumbled long before me, 

And my mind is feeble, broken, 

And this absence of progression, now 

Will leave the mind to tampering – 

I hope I learn to question it 

In time before its answering. 

2

901 

Homeroom 

3

Suited Up 

Riccardo Muzzetto 

4

The Four and the One 

Jonathan Llovet 

A foolish man said nothing exists. 

Another, wiser, though still a fool, said everything exists. 

Another, wiser than the two before, yet still a fool like the others, said only the immaterial exists. 

Another, wiser still than those before, though just a fool as the rest, said only the material exists. 

Each man, being a fool, proposed to all the others that he was the only one amongst them who was 

wise. 

A wise man then approached the four, the wise man coming alone. 

“Although you each are wise, indeed wise in his own way, you are all fools. But alas, so am I. 

But hear here. None of this trite debate shall give you any solace, any happiness, any joy. 

I have been walking alone for some time. Cease your bickering and walk with me. 

People cry for your love, not your proofs.” 

5

A Certain Slant of Light 


6

Rêve Rouillé 


He laughed again. I don’t know why. All I know is that the instant my brother began laughing, I became 

fed up with him. I left the house vexed, furiously shutting the storm-door. My emotions hung me with strings, 

like a marionette, over the stage of the front porch, accompanied by none other than my life’s troubles. 

The house was bleak and dirty. Slabs of rotting wood replaced what were once gleaming walls of soft 

white cotton. They sat forgotten. Oh God, the roof . . . I couldn’t count how many shingles were crooked or 

how many more were missing altogether. And all the iron railings had turned to rust. Clinching the bridge of 

my nose, I departed the peeling, disheveled porch with creaky clacks that altogether sounded ready to leave the 

empty, neglected hearth I could now only call a hovel. Like always, it was misty in the morning and the grass 

was sopped with dew; but when my heel struck gravel, I was able to make my way to the car. 

The nearby town was called Langley. It had a gas station and I was staying at the motel there. Wasn’t 

much to see except the foggy overlook of the marsh, or some old-timers repeating the cycles of their simplistic 

pleasantries and mistaking it for happiness. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so acrimonious; they were, in fact, nice 

people, even if judgmental. It was a small, simple town in South Louisiana. It was where we were burying 

Mom. 

I missed her funeral driving all the way from Detroit. I grew up in Langley, but we never got along with 

each other. I left eagerly for college and boys the instant I turned eighteen and found myself at the University 

of Chicago until I received my degree. And that was a miracle, considering what I went through with Charlie. 

I tried not to focus on him, or Mick, as I plugged the nozzle on the tank and carried my thoughts back to 

Mom. Apparently everyone in the town made an appearance at her funeral; I didn’t know what to make of that. 

I mean, there weren’t many people in Langley, but something about totality impresses me. The town loved her, 

even if she didn’t leave the house often in her later years (due to age, obesity, and cardiovascular disease). But I 

believe she was happy. Fishers passing by to the marshes would occasionally spot her working in the garden 

and wave hello. Mick would run out to the market for her, but sometimes she went, too. 

Mick. My thoughts drifted to him as I parked the car outside the motel room. He wasn’t handling it 

well. He needed her and he was hiding it. Hiding. Under a bottle. By the television. In his laughter. 

I opened the door, sick of the gray, clammy humidity drifting over the horizon, and entered the suite. Of 

course it was dim, dusty, and damp. Just like the rest of Langley, or all of Cajun Country. No wonder I left. 

As I walked in, I discovered a small, brown, and greasy visitor skittering across the floor. Worriedly fussing at 

the cockroach, I threw one of my shoes across the room in squeamish hopes that it would die. Instead, I broke a 

lamp. Classic, Darcy. Classic. And the roach disappeared, leaving me with nothing but the fear of 

unexpectedly meeting him again. Lying on the bed and realizing that an insect should be the least of my 

worries, I disregarded cleaning up the shattered light fixture. I would rather take a nap. So I closed my eyes 

and shifted to a more comfortable position without bothering to scramble under the covers. 

I sleep often. I guess it’s how I escape. When the world becomes burdensome, lonely, or stale, sleeping 

brings me out of it – almost like relieving a debilitating strain from my back. I often slept for dreaming; nothing 

was rusty in my dreams. All of the rain in the world could pour down on me, but in the end nothing rusted, 

molded, rotted, or decayed. I would always feel renewed after experiencing a rain dream, even if I also felt a 

little regretful because it wasn’t real. But the dream I had during that foggy afternoon – in that dusty motel – 

struggled from the depths of an emotional abyss and intruded past the typical pleasantries of my slumber into 

the light of my mind’s eye. 

7

The dream was recurring, and I don’t believe I will ever forget it. Always it starts as Charlie holds the 

pistol to his head, and I’m trapped outside behind the window. I’m trying to run, trying to save him from his 

actions by running to the door. But it’s hard and painful to move because there are silvery strings in each of my 

limbs that wrench me back from every struggling movement. I look at him for as long as I can, but the very 

second I pass the window, the very second I turn away, the very second I allow him to leave my sight, I hear the 

blast. I scream myself to the ground, painfully sobbing as I smell the blood. How it smelled of iron! Why does 

it smell of iron? Was Charlie just some meaningless, malfunctioning machine? Whether or not I reminisce 

about the smell, if it came from the bullet or the blood of my love; the silver strings pull me up into a shadowy 

black void until the blinding glimmer of a stage light strikes me . . . and the trapdoor closes. These merciless, 

adamantine cords hooked into my arms wrench my body into a melancholy ballet performance on a stage 

without an audience. They force me to dance in spite of my fervent lamentations, in spite of the pain I’ve 

experienced, and finally toss me aside without emotion. 

I woke up as weary as I was in the dream, blinking out the beginnings of the tears. I quickly wiped my 

brow, moseyed to the bathroom to adjust my appearance, and found my thrown shoe. I would not let my little 

brother live like this. 

With as hard as it was to see in the day, Langley was completely shrouded in the marsh mists at night. 

And so I drove back to the chipped, pale hovel of a house at nine o’clock to help Mike. As I drove onto the 

front lawn, the stick-shift stuck a little (it was a bit rusty) and I almost rolled into a grassy ditch beside the 

driveway. But halfway in, I applied the emergency brake, opened the door, and staggered out the vehicle with a 

fussing for my black heels as I threw them inside. My toes scrunched in the grass a little before I stomped my 

way back up that dingy, haphazard porch. I knocked on the door, disgruntled from the moisture overrunning 

my feet and irritably barged into the house to find Mick exactly where he had been this morning. 

“Mick, you look filthy! Shouldn’t you clean up? I mean, the lawyer comes tomorrow!” 

“Yeah, okay.” He didn’t move. 

“Mick, stop. Please stop all of . . . this.” My hands motioned to the TV and the pile of beer bottles on 

the side. 

“Why?” His eyes were glassy. 

“This isn’t like you.” 

“What do you mean?” He bent his head in the question and dropped another empty bottle on the pile. 

Hearing the clink of the glass, whispered, “This isn’t like you . . .” 

“Look, Sis, everything will be fine. I know you might be sad about Mom and all, but it doesn’t matter 

anymore, see?” He begins chuckling as my hand reaches my brow. He points toward the cartoon. “Just look at 

him! Everything’ll be fine, Selena! Just laugh with me . . .” 

Withholding my tears, I replied that I could not. 

“Laugh with me, Darcy!” His glassy eyes began to water as my cheeks reddened with dejection, but he 

remained smiling. 

I wiped a tear streaking down my face. 

“Mick, you can’t do this to yourself. I can’t do this either. I know you miss Mom, and I do too, but . . .” 

“But?” he inhaled sharply, quivering in his question. 

“You can’t let your emotions take control of you! Remember Charlie, the boy I dated in college? You 

remembered him yesterday; you said he was the boy who ‘went and shot himself.’ Well, Charlie did shoot 

himself. And since then I’ve been so overcome with sadness that I can’t seem to find anything positive in my 

life. I miss Mom! I miss Langley! I even miss that pig of a man who fathered us! The unhappiness inside me 

controlled me so much; I have become afraid of all of my emotions. Laughter will not solve your problems, 

Mick, because it can’t.” 

He had already begun sobbing when he nodded, probably understanding from his own experience how I 

felt. He stood and we embraced. The lawyer would be coming tomorrow, and the possessions of our late 

mother would be handed over to us. Whether or not I become stringed to her attachments, like a dancing 

marionette over the stage of this old house, and whether or not I reminisce, whether the smell came from the 

bullet or the blood, at least I finally know that Mick will accompany me. Even if everything turns to rust. 

8

Untitled 


9

Three Curious Incidents of Love 

Twisted indigestion 

Jumbled phobia 

Crossed with symmetry 

Blackened ice 

A heart ripped open 

From love 

Both gained and lost 

The Man 

Jumps 

No longer human 

Wings spread 

Flies like a bird 

Freedom 

Sweet sunshine 

Flowers 

Indescribable joy 

Newborn baby 

10 

Adam Naquin

1204 (12 th Grade Winner) 

Homeroom 

11

806 (2 nd Place) 

Homeroom 

12

The Night Hunter 

Francis Weller 

The autumn sun slowly sinks, bleeding flames of orange and blood-red, dying into the 

blue-black of night. The small creatures of the day scurry back to burrows and nests, warned of 

night’s coming by the faint, icy-wet scent carried on the breeze and the steady silence that 

slowly envelops their world. The persistent sound of cars barreling down the distant street 

fades into the sinister silence. The night hunter opens its burning amber eyes, the green pupils 

alight with ruthless cunning. It emerges from its rocky lair. Wolf fur lines the floor of its den. 

Warnings are scattered across the pile of rocks it lives in and the clearing in front of its den. A 

picked-clean coyote skull, sitting atop the rocks, gleams in the starlight. The feathers of a 

golden eagle quiver in the breeze. A raccoon sits in fear on the branches of a nearby pine. The 

night hunter is smaller than the raccoon, yet the night hunter is the raccoon’s greatest fear. 

None walk this world of night and shadows without fearing it. The rattling of the cypress and 

oak trees is muffled by the towering pines. The night hunter stands motionless as stone, silky 

soft, jet-black fur rippling with darker black patterns like oil on water. It knows no fear. Its 

sweet blood-and-milk breath steams in the cool air. A yellow hunting moon floats in a gap 

between the full, fragrant pines. The ground, spongy with layers of needles, is dry and sandy 

beneath its light, silent paws. It flexes its lethally hooked claws in anticipation of the hunt. 

Two fangs, like twin scimitars, hang slightly out of the fearsome maw. It has no living foe. It 

rises and stalks away through the forest, void of fear and mercy, silent as a feather on the 

breeze, visible only as a rippling shadow in a world of darkness. Tonight it hunts. Tonight, 

death visits the forest. 

13

1207 (3 rd Place) 

Homeroom 

14

Utensil Study 


15

1108 (2 nd Place) 

Homeroom 

16

Pooperwocky 

Manny Armour 

Twas bean stew, and the saucy ranch 

Did boil and bubble in the stoo; 

All tingy was the horrid stanch 

And the stome wraths outfoo. 

Beware the Pooperwock, my born, 

The biles that fly, the bombs that splash; 

Beware the poppock flock, the corn, 

The scrumious Diarash! 

He took his tolet tiss in hand 

Long time the sinister poe he squat. 

So pressed he on the Popo seat 

And stood aground in wrought. 

And, as in pussish brought he stoo, 

The Pooperwock, with flies and stains, 

Came stifling through ye wiggly goo 

And gurgled as it came! 

One, Two! One, Two! And through and through 

The tolet tiss went flicker wack; 

He let if float, and with his hand 

He sent it twirling back. 

And have thou flushed the Pooperwock? 

Part ways from me, my stinketh boy. 

O fartjous day – Nopoo, Noweigh! 

He burbled in his joy. 

Twas bean stew, and the saucy ranch 

Did boil and bubble in the stoo; 

All tingy was the horrid stanch 

And the stome wraths outfoo. 

17

801 (3 rd Place) 

Homeroom 

18

Medal Study 


19

My Wretched Trait 


Cum Laborem sedulo assidue et cum mentis sensus 

Sum semper tam avarus, quod mihi sic mala res. 

Although I work diligently and continuously, 

and even though there is understanding in my mind, 

I am always so selfish, which is my wretched trait. 

20

Senorita de Los Muertos 

John D’Angelo 

21

Father of Peace 

Harrison Dunlap 

At last, my traitorous son’s army was routed. The battle between titans had lasted all the 

blood-soaked morning; two armies of equal strength clashed on those fields, but my veteran 

soldier’s greater experience shined forth gloriously in the final minutes. I stomped my boot 

onto the chin of a writhing peasant before plunging my blade into his abdomen. I hardly 

bothered stepping around the innumerable bodies littering the field. So packed were they that 

walking was impossible without putting my foot either on a corpse or in a puddle of blood. The 

field had been dry from a month of drought just that morning, but now blood had soaked the 

earth so thoroughly that bodies were trampled deeply into the mud such that only their lifeless, 

ugly faces and pleading hands poked above the surface. Everywhere the hysterical cries of 

dying men filled my ears, some crying for their God, some crying for their mothers. The stench 

of blood, sweat, and waste – of death – clogged my breathing. 

I had never witnessed such malice in battle as when brother fell against brother. The civil 

war had been brief but, as I breathlessly looked around, costly. Never before, I already knew, 

had so many Korlishmen lost their lives in a single day. The slaughter was unfathomable. 

I remained stupefied for a time after the realization, but before long one of my noble 

knights, Sir Austernus, approached me, galloping upon his courser. “My Lord, I see that you’ve 

been unhorsed,” he addressed me from behind his face-concealing great helm as he reigned in 

his dying mount. The gasping creature had a grievous puncture wound in its shoulder, bleeding 

profusely. “Your retinue has been deeply concerned for you. God be praised I should find you 

unharmed.” 

“God be praised indeed,” said I. “How fares my troop?” 

“My Lord,” Austernus bowed his helmeted head, “Sirs Velanius and Pyrgodectus were 

both slain by one of your son’s great-knights.” 

My heart sank. Velanius and Pyrgodectus had both lived as true knights: brave, 

generous, honest. But such was war. 

“The others are taking a well-earned rest atop yonder hill,” he went on, pointing behind 

to his left. I followed his motion with my eyes. “My Lord,” he said again as if to regain my 

attention. “I offer you my horse.” 

“’Tis not necessary,” I said immediately. “Go, deliver your message, then let the poor 

thing die in peace.” 

“Aye, my lord. I feel pity for the beast. She’s served her duty to the Crown bravely.” 

He patted the courser’s mane mournfully. “Ah, well. Congratulations on your victory, my 

lord,” he said at last with a respectful bow of his head before riding onwards. 

With that, I turned and began my ascent to the hill upon which my men were awaiting 

me. I passed my victorious soldiers, conquerors, in every sense of the word. Some stepped 

gingerly around the littered corpses, others pitilessly trod upon the dead and dying; some 

searched the faces for those of their fallen comrades, others looted the bodies of slain nobles of 

their battle-gear and jewelry. But all of them, as I passed, bowed and saluted me, exhaustion 

and respect equally manifest on their grimy faces. 

22

Once I crested the hill, I saw the eight men remaining of my retinue. One man, Sir 

Eugraeses, hailed me first. “King! God above has seen fit to fulfill our prayers and grant us 

absolute victory! By your leadership, all those who opposed us lie dead upon that field or 

routed into those mountains. King! Tales of this victory will be told for centuries and onward. 

The greatest honor of my life is to have fought by your side on this day!” 

By now all eight knights stood in a line before me, saluting me with their blood-encrusted 

swords raised dutifully above their heads, the deadly tips pointed into the high heavens. 

I waved my hand, signaling for them to be at ease. 

“Men,” I said, “congratulations on our victory today. Each of you proved his worth as a 

paladin of the king. Alas, that Velanius and Pyrgodectus could not be here to rejoice with us. 

May God guide their souls, and may their spirits be forever at ease.” 

“God be with them,” a few of the knights echoed. 

“But there is time neither for mourning nor celebration,” I went on. “So long as my son 

has followers, this land will be torn by war. We must regroup our forces and follow our 

remaining enemies into the mountains. This traitorous element must be purged from our lands.” 

I noticed the men looking at each other, meeting eyes, as though something was secretly 

known among them. Sir Mardinus drew a deep breath and stepped forward. I fixed my glare 

upon him. He spoke, “I think, Sire, that will no longer be necessary,” and the men parted to 

reveal a covered body resting peacefully atop a rocky slab. 

My heart dropped and my stomach caught in my throat. I stepped laboriously towards 

the altar, knees buckling with each step. I wrapped my armored fist around the veil, smearing 

blood upon the silvery fabric, and drew it back gently. 

I could only hope my soldiers didn’t notice the pained contortions of my face as I looked 

upon the fair, dead countenance of my firstborn; for in that moment, all my malice, all my 

vengefulness, was superseded by an inundation of memories. I now looked not upon the face of 

an enemy but of my beloved son, whose birth had brought my life new meaning, whose playful 

laughter had brought gayness to my dreary halls, whose bravery in tourney and wisdom in 

studies had once brought his father great pride. 

“Good work today, gentlemen,” I said, as callously as I could muster. I placed the veil 

back over his youthful face, as if I were tucking him in securely for one last night. “Sir Tilbaut, 

count the dead nobles. I want an accurate casualty report by sundown. Everyone else, gather 

your men from the looting and make camp on that hill. We set out tomorrow at daybreak.” I 

could no longer act. “Leave me,” I growled spitefully through clenched teeth as my eyes welled 

up. 

The brave soldiers did as they were told, and I turned from them, stumbling for a few 

steps before I fell to my knees, gasping for breath. For a few seconds I couldn’t breathe, but 

when at last I did I let out a wail so loud I was certain every man in that valley, dead and living, 

had heard. I sobbed uncontrollably until my eyes burned and my lungs ached. “God, oh God, 

why? Why?” I repeated helplessly, over and over and over again. 

23

804 (8 th Grade Winner!) 

Homeroom 

24

Effects 

Nathan Farley 

25


Homeroom 

26

The Clockwork Man 

Adrian Prudhomme 

27

Fairy Tale 

Adam Naquin 

I didn’t ask for any of this. 

Did I want it? 

Sure, what 

Girl wouldn’t want the heart of a prince? 

Or is it vanity that sneaks into the mind 

Messes with the heart 

And confuses love with feelings of obsession, 

Dangerous when mixed with the feeble mind of a young girl. 

Truth 

Spills out, pours fresh 

No longer able to be 

hidden. 

Maiden, princess, Cinderella – 

I’ve been called all and more. 

You’d think I’d have a thick skin 

Be able to 

Handle anything that comes 

My way. 

But what I wasn’t prepared for 

was him. 

They don’t tell you what to do when a man stops loving you. 

It isn’t supposed to happen. 

But no girl should have that knowledge 

Fairy tales should not be allowed to exist. 

28


Homeroom 

29

909 (3 rd Place) 

Homeroom 

30

Adventure Time 


31

Werewolf 

Malachi Hull, Jr. 

32

Stay! 


God, even if you’re not there, 

Even if, in your power, 

God, even if you don’t care 

For any worldly bower – 

The skeptics scoff, and they will, 

The simple their lands will till. 

Hear now, for I plead to Thee, 

Stay in their stories. 

Stay in their poems. 

Stay in their tales. 

Stay! 

Stay in their hearts. 

Stay! 

Above all, 

Stay in their hearts. 

Then maybe, 

Just maybe, 

Men can 

Learn 

To Love – 

Again – 

I pray Thee 

Stay! 

33

1202 (2 nd Place) 

Homeroom 

34

A Pound of Prevention 


35

This little Chinese dictionary 


Red-covered 

Fits in the palm of my hand. 

It is a key to something new. 

Zach Lannes 

But what, might I ask? 

Perhaps it is a ship led by John Wendell 

That although violent in pangs of new-world birth 

Gives way to a newly-round, rich-soiled earth. 

Perhaps it is a door to the court of Ricci 

That those Jesuits, those brave men, once walked through 

To give natives astrological charts anew. 

Perhaps it is a metropolis, 

Perhaps a mountain in Tibet; 

Perhaps it is an attempt to transcend. 


Red-covered 

Fits in the palm of my hand. 

36


Homeroom 

37

The Sword in Her Sleeve 


38

1102 

Homeroom 

39

902 (2 nd Place) 

Homeroom 

40

Who the Victor 

Francis Weller 

This is the story of the climax between two groups of people, both of whom believe they have been wronged beyond all 

measure. Whether these events take place in the distant past or the distant future is unknown. As to who the victor is, that is for you, 

the reader, to decide. 

A moonless night sky looked down on a circular encampment in the center of a scrub 

plain. High walls of stone surrounded the encampment, sealing it in from the outside. Soldiers 

paced the walls with military precision, dressed in armor of interlocking steel strips. Iron spears 

bristled along the ramparts like porcupine quills, and longbows were outlined against the dark 

sky. Steel helms gleamed in the torchlight as guards peered nervously over the wall at the 

desert below. Two of the guards stopped walking and leaned against the wall and stared out 

over the wasteland. 

“I don’t like this,” murmured the smaller of the two guards. “There’s no moon, not even 

a star out. There’s too much cloud cover to see a thing. They could attack at any moment.” 

The larger guard laughed easily and leaned his back against the rampart, staring inward at 

the small village inside the walls. “Relax, Morrain. Even those milk-drinking cowards need to 

see to fight. Not even the Karrines would be insane enough to attack on a night like tonight.” 

His voice was deep and resonant like a bell. The big guard waved a huge hand to indicate the 

sky and the village. “See, no light, no fight. And Sobol village is safe and secure.” 

Morrain did not appear comforted. “The Karrines seem to love the night, and they should 

have retaliated by now for what you did two months ago, Dandin.” 

Dandin rolled his eyes and took off his helmet, revealing a rugged face framed with a 

long curtain of rust-colored braids. “This is why you are second in command, Morrain. Khan 

and his raiders are the ones who wiped out their village; they have no way of knowing that I 

paid Khan and told him where to find them. Even if any were still alive, they wouldn’t attack 

us.” Dandin suddenly stopped to slap the back of his neck. “Stupid bug bit me is all,” he said 

to Morrain. 

“But how do you know they’re all dead?” Morrain pressed him. Dandin smiled 

indulgently at his friend. 

“This is why I’m the chief around here,” he said in the tone of one trying to teach an 

especially stupid child. “I’m the one with all the answers. Khan has never left a survivor 

before. Ever. He erased the Karrine village and every last man, woman, and child in it from the 

face of the earth. All I had to do was pay Khan for his services. If any are alive, then they are 

the ones who fled in terror at first sight of Khan – cowards we don’t have to fear.” 

Clink. 

Dandin started as a grappling hook landed on the parapet between them. 

Clink. Clink. Clink. 

Grappling hooks whizzed through the air, fastening themselves onto the walls. Dandin 

jumped as an arrow imbedded itself in his scabbard. Pulling it out, Dandin saw that it was 

flighted with a raven feather. It was a Karrine arrow. 

41

“Attack! Attack!” screamed Morrain to the other guards. “The Karrines are attacking the 

North Wall.” Soldiers flocked to Dandin and Morrain and joined them in hacking apart the 

ropes attached to the grappling hooks. People asleep in the village awoke with cries of fear. 

Some stumbled out in sets of old armor and clutched aged broadswords. Men stood outside 

their homes, looking around in confusion while children and wives wailed inside. 

“Shoot the ground,” ordered Dandin. “Let’s see if we can flush them out.” A score of 

archers began firing wave after wave of arrows into the surrounding darkness. Dandin frowned. 

Something was wrong. The grappling hooks seemed to be empty; they only hung loosely on 

the wall. As Dandin’s men cut the ropes, no screams of an invader falling to his death 

accompanied them. Archers were strafing the area with longbows, but again no screams 

ensued. And why had only a single arrow been fired? 

A scream from across the compound caused Dandin to whirl just in time to see a guard 

topple off the west wall. Troops stationed on the west side were forced to take cover. Arrows 

snuffed the life out of his men as soon as they raised their heads above the rampart. 

“It was a diversion,” Dandin bellowed at the top of his lungs. “They’re attacking the 

west side. Morrain, you stay here. You two archers stay too.” Soldiers ran to the other side, 

armor clanking loudly as they stumbled over spears and broadswords. Dandin cursed and 

slammed his helmet. He was about to follow his troops when he saw something odd in the 

village below. Although there was no wind, torches were being extinguished for no apparent 

reason. 

Dandin squinted, struggling to see in the near total darkness. He dimly made out a 

shadowy figure drifting through the village like a ghost, making its way toward the front gate 

on the northern wall. He saw a running soldier stop cold and peer closely at the figure. Finally 

seeing it, the soldier began to run toward it. The shadow moved toward the guard like a burst of 

dark lightning. The soldier never had time to even draw a weapon; he simply collapsed in a 

heap on the ground. 

“No,” Dandin whispered, shock rooting him where he stood. “That can’t be . . .” He let 

the thought trail off as the shadow reached the gate. With alarming speed it heaved the bar off 

the gates and threw them open. Grabbing a torch from the wall, the figure waved it three times 

and then extinguished it. Before the light went out, Dandin saw the figure clearly. 

“Terrin,” he whispered, dread filling his veins like ice. Morrain had been right. The 

Karrines had survived. “Forget the walls,” he roared to every soldier near enough to hear. 

“They’re at the gates!” But it was too late. 

The thunder of hooves announced the arrival of forty black plains-horses. Two people, 

the second of which leapt off once the horse charged through the gates, rode each horse. All 

were dressed in black armor of leather and bone and carried a bow and quiver packed with dark 

arrows. Unlike the bulky Sobol soldiers, who were armed with broadswords, the lean Karrines 

carried black scimitars. They swamped Sobol in absolute silence, cutting down anyone who 

dared to pick up a weapon. 

One of the archers by Dandin notched an arrow but dropped his bow with a yelp. 

“Something hit my arm,” he moaned. Dandin could see the hilt of a knife gleaming in the 

archer’s right arm. The second archer took aim but fell backward, and his arrow veered into the 

night sky. 

42

“Get down,” Dandin shouted. Morrain and the other archer dropped to the floor with 

Dandin. 

“What happened to him?” Morrain asked in bewilderment. Dandin crept along the 

ground to the dead archer and pulled a slim dagger from his throat. 

“Terrin is here,” he said grimly. He could hear the sounds of fighting below, the clash of 

sword and spear on shield, the twanging of bowstrings, and the neighing of horses. Sudden 

noise from the south wall made Dandin look behind him. A second swarm of warriors came 

over the south wall; at least fifty warriors emerged, cutting down any resistance with ruthless 

speed. As one they flooded the walkway, charging to the west wall where the Sobol soldiers 

were most concentrated. Even in the darkness Dandin could see his troops were suffering 

heavy losses. He turned around to Morrain. 

“Send out our cavalry and station as many archers as we can spare on the wall tops. 

Make sure we have enough ground units to keep them in the open; as long as we can keep the 

height advantage for our archers we can win this. Once you’ve done that, release the hellhounds.” 

Morrain nodded. “Sir,” Morrain responded as he and the wounded archer ran down the 

steps to follow Dandin’s orders. Dandin was about to follow when a voice behind him, soft as a 

quilt, made his body turn to stone. 

“Behold, Dandin: the death of Sobol. Finally ancient wrongs will be set right.” Dandin 

turned to see Terrin, leader of the Karrines, perched on the rampart behind him. For a moment 

all Dandin could do was stare and absorb the fact that Terrin was here. 

Terrin was certainly a fearsome sight. He was built lean and tough like a long distance 

runner. His jet-black hair hung in a curtain down to his shoulders, framing a shockingly pale 

but proud face. His eyes were amber like an owl’s, and his irises were ringed in black. 

Everything he wore was dark as midnight. His armor was the standard leather, plated with 

bone, that was typical of a Karrine, but he wore a cloak of wolf fur and raven feathers and 

unique solid iron gauntlets engraved with ebony crosses. His gloves had a triangular piece of 

obsidian tipping each finger like claws. Terrin had no less than one hundred various daggers 

and knives visible on his body, and he held an iron javelin tipped with an obsidian blade. 

Terrin leapt down easily and smiled at Dandin, revealing a mouth of jagged, yellow 

triangular teeth like a shark’s. “I have been waiting a long time for this, Dandin,” he said. 

“When I could have the satisfaction of turning the bane of my tribe into food for the carrion 

birds.” 

Dandin unsheathed his broadsword and faced Terrin boldly. “What makes you think we 

will feed the birds tonight, nomad idiot?” he growled. 

Terrin darted forward and slashed with the javelin, cutting a deep wound in Dandin’s 

arm. Dandin lashed out, but it was almost impossible to see Terrin. Terrin stepped back and 

leaned on his javelin, smiling with vicious satisfaction. 

“Just take a look, Dandin. You’re precious Sobol soldiers are in panic. They are slipping 

in pools of their own blood while my Karrines wreak the vengeance they deserve.” 

43

Dandin chanced a look at the village and saw Terrin was right. His soldiers’ military 

precision was crumbling under the Karrines’ ferocity and close teamwork. Dandin turned back 

to Terrin and grit his teeth. He scooped up a torch, lit it quickly, and jammed it between two 

bricks. 

“A pack of scavenging raiders like you could never defeat the noble Sobol village.” He 

growled. Terrin howled in outrage and lunged forward. This time Dandin was prepared; his 

sword and Terrin’s lance clashed in a shower of sparks. They began to fight, both weapons 

whistling through the air with a strange music all their own. 

“We’re the savages? We’re the savages!” Terrin screeched. “Your father, chief before 

you, killed our wise chief Elgador for hunting a rabbit less than half a mile inside your border! 

You claim to be noble, but would a noble man carve an innocent’s teeth into points? Or for that 

matter, would a noble man hire Khan and his barbarians to lay waste to an entire village? Yes, I 

know of it. Your nephew came to the scene of the crime to loot the remains of our families, and 

he told all that you had done.” 

“And ever since Elgador your tribe has been a scourge to Sobol,” Dandin growled. He 

struck downward and then sideways, knocking Terrin off balance. Terrin rolled aside as the 

broadsword came down again, scoring a deep cut in his back. “You have done nothing but raid 

and attack us for two decades. Now you do not even have the decency to attack under the light 

of the sun.” Dandin spat. 

Dandin slashed downward, cutting Terrin’s leg to the bone. Terrin stabbed Dandin in the 

ankle and both hobble back a few steps, glaring furiously at each other. Terrin hurled two 

knives into the village below. As a pair of Sobol screams rose up in perfect harmony, Terrin 

pointed his lance at Dandin. 

“This is the day of reckoning,” Terrin spat. “Before the sun rises, the blood of your 

soldiers will have turned the ground into a scarlet swamp.” Dandin yelled and the two began to 

fight once more, javelin and sword clashing in a shower of sparks. Dandin’s sword smashed the 

walkway where Terrin had been a millisecond before, and Terrin’s lance tore through Dandin’s 

armor but failed to strike skin. The two fought without mercy, each determined to kill the other. 

Terrin was fast and difficult to see, but Dandin’s strength was incredible. His endurance and 

skill had never failed him. 

After several minutes, however, Dandin was feeling unusually tired. Swinging the huge 

broadsword was taxing, and Terrin still had plenty of energy. Even with the torch it was hard to 

see him. Dandin tried to back up and lure Terrin toward the west wall where his archers could 

kill Terrin, but the Karrine chief was cunning. Every time Dandin retreated Terrin rained 

knives into the village, each one taking the life of another soldier. 

Suddenly Dandin slipped and fell on his back, and the great broadsword skittered away. 

Terrin’s eyes bore into him like flames. As he raised the javelin for a kill, Dandin knew he 

would not evade this blow. But the deathblow did not come. Terrin hesitated, then lowered his 

javelin slowly and spat at Dandin. “If you still had your blade in hand you would be dead by 

now.” Terrin turned and began to walk away. 

Thwak! Terrin howled like a wolf as a longbow arrow imbedded itself in his shoulder. 

Terrin looked behind Dandin and snarled in fury. Dandin felt someone pull him upright and 

heard a voice say, “Need a hand, chief?” 

44

“Morrain?” Dandin asked in amazement as his broadsword was thrust into his hand. 

Dandin’s right hand man winked roguishly at him. 

“Thought you could use a little help,” Morrain said. Dandin scrambled upright as Terrin 

ripped the arrow out of his shoulder and lunged again. Dandin fought with renewed vigor, 

knowing that Morrain would not abandon him. Dandin slashed, cutting Terrin’s leg again. 

Morrain fired another arrow, tearing Terrin’s side. 

“Our leader is in danger!” yelled a Karrine who wore an iron helm with gazelle’s horns. 

This one rode a horse that was larger than the others, and he wielded two scimitars instead of 

one. “Rally to me. Our chief needs help,” he commanded the others. 

“No, Riptar, stay and fight the Sobol soldiers,” bellowed Terrin. “I am but one man and 

no more important than the lowest ranking Karrine warrior. If we lose this battle, the Karrines 

are no more. Whether I live or die, the tribe must survive.” Riptar hesitated before wheeling 

his steed and charging back into battle, slaughtering Sobol soldiers with a vengeance. 

Dandin and Morrain continued to fight Terrin, pushing him back. Now Terrin was tiring, 

his strikes less swift, his blows weaker. A howl ripped through the air, lifting Dandin’s spirits 

immensely. The door to a large stable opened and three scores of dark boarhounds bounded 

out, tongues lolling. The dogs bayed war cries and ran among the battling humans, seizing 

Karrines and tearing them apart. Dandin laughed, knowing victory was not far away. 

“Hahaha, there are my hell-hounds, eager for blood. The destruction of your tribe of 

nomads is near, Terrin,” Dandin gloated, confident that his most terrible agents of destruction 

would make short work of the Karrines. Terrin staggered back and smiled savagely. 

Throwing back his head, Terrin howled to the night a single word. 

“Deathwind!” 

Dandin looked wildly around, expecting this to be the signal for another wave of raiders. 

Sobol soldiers paused, not knowing where the sound came from or what it meant. Riptar blew a 

bone whistle, but nothing else happened. Dandin laughed again, though this time a little 

uneasily. 

“Seems as though there’s no cavalry coming to the rescue, eh Terrin?” he sneered. Terrin 

smiled as though observing a slightly amusing child. Then he laughed. 

“Take another look, Dandruff,” he said, scorn ringing in every word. Curiosity got the 

better of him, and Dandin glanced at the ground, and for a moment he didn’t notice anything 

different. Then he saw it: a ripple, as if the darkness had become water and something had 

disturbed it. He watched as a boarhound bounded toward a wounded Karrine, mouth open and 

ready to kill. The shadows seemed to grow legs, claws, and a fanged maw that seized the dog 

and dragged it into the shelter of a hut. All across Sobol dark shapes crawled over walls and 

pounced on unsuspecting soldiers and dogs. Dandin and Morrain looked at each other in shock, 

then turned to Terrin, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. 

“Panthers from Primorye, the land of ice and snow,” Terrin informed them as he sent a 

couple of daggers whistling into the village. 

Dandin’s blood froze in his veins. He remembered the words of his childhood mentor, 

Seneca: “Of all the creatures that walk the land, swim the sea, or fly through the sky, none is 

more feared or more deadly then a northern panther. They are immensely powerful, ruthless, 

and fast; these creatures immediately dispose of any enemy without a scrap of remorse. 

45

They are also the smartest of beasts and will lead a trained and experienced hunter to his 

death with ease. Never attempt to engage this animal, for your only hope is to pray that it does 

not find you.” 

“You lie,” Dandin croaked. “No Karrine could tame such beasts.” Terrin chuckled and 

spun a dagger point on his fingertip. 

“Ah, but I was not born a Karrine.” Terrin purred, his voice silky. “I was born in the 

Primorye country, where we had learned the ancient art of training these feral beasts and 

leading them to war. Once trained, no other beast is more loyal. When my birthplace was no 

longer habitable, Elgador welcomed me into his tribe with open arms. Now I bring the most 

fearsome of demons to ensure your death.” 

“I will gladly die,” Dandin spat. “But you are a visitor here, and it is only polite to let a 

visitor go first!” The two resumed their battle, except now Morrain and Dandin stood shoulder 

to shoulder with both broadswords unsheathed, slashing and hacking at their sleeker opponent. 

Terrin snarled but backed down the walkway, barely able to protect himself. Dandin whistled 

and a hound like a fanged horse bounded to his side and harried Terrin, driving him back 

relentlessly. “Kill him, Nero,” Dandin commanded the dog. 

Dandin could see Terrin would not last much longer. His dog must have sensed it too 

because it bayed the kill signal and leapt at Terrin at the same moment Morrain swung his 

broadsword. Time slowed; Dandin could see Terrin leaning away from the blade and straight 

into Nero’s path. Dandin saw the glistening mouth open, saliva dangling from the mossy 

yellow teeth aimed at Terrin’s throat. 

A sound like a roaring fire and a man screaming ripped through the night, and his pet was 

hurled aside. A monstrous shape seized Nero and slammed him against the wall. The hound 

howled as he was thrown to land at Dandin’s feet. Once more the death of Dandin’s greatest 

enemy eluded him, and the cause sent shivers running down his spine. 

A panther crouched in front of Terrin like a black wraith. It snarled, and the sound 

carried all the burn of frost and flame, igniting dark fears buried deep in Dandin’s subconscious. 

“Good boy, Pardus,” cried Terrin. 

“Kill them,” roared Dandin. Nero bounded forward, and Pardus met him in the middle. 

As the two animals wrestled in the middle of the pathway, Morrain selected an arrow and drew 

back his bowstring, only to fall dead with daggers in his heart, throat, and skull. Dandin 

bellowed and fell to fighting Terrin once again; each fought wildly with no regard to 

sportsmanship. As the two pairs of combatants, one human and one animal, spilled blood on 

the ramparts of Sobol, their allies did so in the village, using houses to snipe arrows and fire to 

flush foes into the open. 

Dandin and Terrin stepped back for a moment breathing heavily. After throwing a knife 

at a Sobol archer, Terrin turned back to regard Dandin through tired eyes. Dandin knew neither 

one of them could take much more of this. Dandin was exhausted, and his broadsword was 

almost too heavy to lift. Terrin was down to just five blades sheathed in his belt. 

46

Dandin struck Terrin’s bad leg once again, and this time the splintering of bone was 

audible. But Terrin just snarled like a wildcat and leapt at Dandin. Dandin dropped his sword 

and grabbed Terrin with both hands. Terrin struggled, but Dandin held Terrin’s spear with one 

hand and his throat with the other. Terrin struggled madly but could reach neither the daggers 

in his belt nor his javelin. He bared his jagged teeth and lashed out with his gloved hand, 

obsidian talons ripping across Dandin’s eye and face. Dandin bellowed, and his grip on 

Terrin’s throat lessened slightly. It was enough. 

Terrin twisted and sank his jagged teeth deep into Dandin’s wrist, feeling bone scrape in 

his jaw. Dandin roared and flung him aside as blood sprayed the stone like dark rain. Terrin 

and Dandin raised their weapons when the wrestling animals came between them. Suddenly 

Pardus went limp and lay still, a jagged wound decorating his neck. Nero howled in triumph 

and planted a paw on the cat’s shoulder. 

Three things happened in rapid succession at that moment: Terrin roared in grief, Pardus 

leapt straight up, and Nero toppled over the wall into the village below. Pardus bounded down 

the wall in a streak of darkness. A strangled yelp from below, abruptly cut off, announced the 

death of Dandin’s most feared implement of destruction. 

Dandin bellowed and ran forward like a charging bull, blade raised for the kill, wounds 

forgotten. Terrin hurled his remaining daggers, but Dandin had his arm up in expectation. The 

daggers stuck in his arm but did not strike anything vital. The huge blade cleaved through the 

stone, sending shrapnel in all directions. In that moment Terrin struck, burying his lance in 

Dandin’s stomach. 

“Ahhhh,” Dandin cried. Terrin pulled a sheath from a cord around his neck and 

withdrew a beautiful obsidian dagger. Etched onto the dagger’s blade were the words Night 

Talon. Dandin slashed across Terrin’s chest, leaving a gaping wound like a hungry mouth. 

Terrin shrieked and leapt at Dandin, plunging the dagger into the vital artery near the shoulder. 

Dandin struck Terrin with the flat of his sword, sending him crashing into the wall. 

Terrin struggled to stand, but his wounded leg finally gave out. As Terrin collapsed, he 

looked up at Dandin, who stood with blade poised to kill. Terrin began to laugh; the laughter 

became louder and louder as the seconds went by. 

“You never realized,” Terrin croaked as Dandin prepared for the kill. “All this time, you 

were already dead.” 

“What do you mean, devil?” Dandin spat. 

“My ultimate plan,” hissed the Karrine chief. “I was once nicknamed the crooked snake, 

for I always have a plan within a plan. By staying to fight me, you were not there to inspire 

courage in your troops. But it no longer matters. Your death will seal the battle.” 

Dandin stomped on Terrin, making the latter moan in pain. “I’m the one who will live to 

see dawn,” he said. “It is you who will die on this wall.” 

“Aye, but you will join me in death,” murmured Terrin. “The plan within the plan. Do 

you know of the scrub viper? Its venom takes a little while to take effect, but it cannot be 

cured. Once it strikes in full, it slays quickly. Did you not wonder why your strength began to 

seep away so soon? No bug bit you this night – only me.” 

47

A sudden horrible thought occurred to Dandin at the same moment his heart began to 

contort, unable to beat. He gasped and reached back to grope at his neck. As Dandin gasped 

wildly for air, he withdrew a tiny flint dagger from his neck, no bigger than a thorn. He stared 

at Terrin and choked out, “You . . . treachery . . .” But at that moment his heart ceased to beat 

and the great Dandin fell. 

As he died, the broadsword slipped from his hand. Terrin tried to dodge, but his 

legendary speed had deserted him. The immense blade struck Terrin’s skull. Terrin leaned 

against the wall, feeling life ebb from him. A gentle growl announced the arrival of his faithful 

cat. Pardus nudged Terrin with one paw, but the panther knew enough of death that it did not 

bother trying to stop the flow of blood. As his faithful panther curled around him, Terrin 

looked at the moon and spoke quietly. 

“He was a worthy warrior. May he find peace in the next life, so long as it is far from 

me.” He lowered his head and murmured, “Forgive me, Lord, but my clan and its traditions 

must survive. I will not let the Karrines be hunted or corrupted.” Terrin lifted his head with 

great effort and looked Pardus in the eye. “I will wait for you, old friend,” he breathed. “I will 

wait for you and my kinsmen before I journey to the next life.” 

And with that Terrin, greatest of the Karrine chiefs, died, with only the great leopard 

Pardus to keep vigil for him. 

The battle was over. The Karrines had suffered heavy losses, but not a single Sobol 

soldier or dog was left alive. A small group of prisoners, mainly children and elders who were 

unable to fight, sat cross-legged and surrounded by Karrines. Panthers paced among the bodies, 

sniffing out those who faked death in the hope of seeing dawn. Riptar ran to the wall tops to 

report their great victory but stopped cold when he saw what had happened. 

“No,” he said quietly. “No, no, no.” Riptar ran to his leader’s side, but it was too late. 

Riptar looked up into the golden eyes of Pardus who lay curled around the body, and he knew. 

Terrin was gone. Blinking back tears, Riptar pulled the dagger and javelin from Dandin’s body 

and placed them in Terrin’s hands. As he curled his leader’s fingers around the weapons, Riptar 

remembered when Terrin had spoken to him about mercy and forgiveness being the hallmarks 

of honor and courage. Now as he sat beside his lifelong friend, all the teaching turned to ash 

and he knew one thing: Terrin was no more. 

“Sir, as Terrin’s second in command, you are chief now,” a Karrine called from the base 

of the steps. “What shall we do with the prisoners?” Riptar barely heard the question. He 

gently closed those amber eyes that no longer burned with the ferocity and courage to command 

respect from even his most bitter enemy. 

“Sir, the prisoners?” asked the Karrine again. 

“Kill them,” Riptar growled. He wanted to punish someone, blame anything he could for 

the death of Terrin. Something he could control, something more than a mangled corpse with 

an arm full of knives. 

“Are you sure sir?” the warrior asked hesitantly. “This is not our way. Terrin would not 

approve.” 

“I said kill them!” roared Riptar. “Do it now or I’ll do it myself.” The Karrine quailed 

under his new leader’s glare. 

48

“Yes sir, and do you have any further orders?” Riptar stood and loomed over the 

Karrine, his face a mask of fury. 

“I have many orders,” he growled. “No longer will we be nomads; move the tribe here. 

We will live in this village from now on. And find out how the Sobol soldiers made that steel 

armor. Terrin would not have died if he had been wearing steel.” Now Riptar was on a roll, 

rage and grief mingling with the surge of strength that comes from new power. “I want this 

entire encampment repaired, everything. We will learn to smelt steel and farm. No more will 

we rely on panthers in combat.” 

Riptar unsheathed his scimitars and hurled them over the wall. He picked up Dandin’s 

immense broadsword and leveled the tip against the Karrine’s chest. 

“You have your orders,” he said, menace lacing every word. “Now obey me. Make Sobol 

ours.” 

49

Gone are the days . . . 

Jonathan Nguyen 

50

All is meaningless 

All is meaningless. 

However, we are humans 

Who can love. 

(How wonderful a condition.) 

Therefore, let us love everyone 

So that we may be happy 

As it is right for us to live. 


51

Halo 

Alex Vinet 

52

907 

Homeroom 

53

The Bomb 


There she saw, upon a hill, just across 

The vale, a bud just on the verge of bloom. 

It her eyes did brighten, despite shadow – 

Night. 

But it died too soon! Horrid sleep, I toss 

My eyes from her. She died, she died too soon. 

In white light so hot it burned even marrow – 

Light. 

All in a moment’s flash, she, bud – oh! – even 

Vale – all these things known wiped bare, made even. 

54

Feed Your Soul 


55

Faithful 


56

God in Strange Places 

Adam Naquin 

I’m in a building, dim and dark 

less than a quarter of a mile away 

from Central Park 

surrounded by a faith-destroying frenzy 

flashing lights, honking horns, 

the instruments used to adorn 

the true god of those recently born 

how to convince 

the Working Bees, the Chirping Birds – 

who live by a Tree? 

seems only me. 

57

Where the Flowers Grow 


58

The World Spins Underneath Us 

Nicholas Gobert 

Why do we separate into races when there’s only one race to the end of time? 

Why do some of us double our paces while others are left behind? 

Black white and tan faces all have the same design. 

Eyes lips ears nose – 

Quite frankly the anatomy doesn’t change down to the toes. 

We all die we all smile we all cry all while 

The world spins underneath us, 

Never around us. 

We’re in the same place, 

The same rotation; 

There is no special case, 

No variation. 

So don’t think above, 

Think below; 

Then reach for the stars 

And the world will grow. 

59

1107 (3 rd Place) 

Homeroom 

60

2013 

Homeroom Photo Contest 

BEST PHOTO Homeroom 1106 

8 th 

9 th 

10 th 

11 th 

12 th 

Grade Winner Homeroom 804 





Honorable Mentions 

1207 1107 902 806 

1202 1108 909 801

View the 2013 Calliope - Jesuit High School

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